In the Garden
by Lachesis Grimm
Summary: "Agent Simmons has been permanently reassigned." It was an order SHIELD would come to regret. (AU after T.R.A.C.K.S.; Jemma Simmons/Phil Coulson.)
1. Salix babylonica

_On the willows there we hung up our lyres._  
-Psalm 137

It seemed a reasonable enough request at the time. The team was in a brief lull, and Jemma was always happy to put up with a little discomfort in the name of science. There was talk of perhaps coauthoring a paper, afterward, about the Chitauri virus and whatever long-term effects it might have on the human body.

Jemma didn't expect them to find anything. She'd been monitoring her own blood-work, after all, and everything had returned to normal shortly after her little sky-diving adventure. Still, it would be nice to lay everything out on paper, and she had heard rumors of some very interesting developments in the nanobiotechnology lab.

Jemma really was quite passionate about science. Quite driven. And so, it was with a cheerful smile that she wished her teammates well, promising Fitz they would catch up on Sherlock as soon as she returned.

The problem was, she never returned.

* * *

The official excuse was that Agent Simmons was caught up in her own research, and that she fully expected to finish in a few months. She would return then, the bland message stated. Until that day, SHIELD was supplying them with an interim biomedical expert, an agent by the name of Thomas Morgan.

He was perfectly nice, with excellent credentials and a taste for terrible puns. He was even field certified, which theoretically made him an even more valuable asset than Simmons- though of course, if anyone on the team had been queried on that point, they all would have taken issue with that particular idea.

And, three months after he was assigned to the Bus as a temp, his assignment was made permanent, news which made Fitz sulk and stalk the corridors like an offended cat.

Coulson sent in his own inquiries as to the assignment, a twinge of unease rapidly blooming into actual worry as the same reply returned again and again into his inbox:

_Agent Simmons has been permanently reassigned._

It was, surprisingly, May who summed up the group's feelings on the matter. "This is bullshit," she said, dropping the copies of the emails in question into a nearby trash can. She then grabbed Fitz by the arm and hauled him into the kitchen, where she plied him with milk and cookies until he stopped snarling.

"Jemma made the best shortbread," he said weepily, and May patted him on the head, which seemed only to alarm him.

When a moping Skye appeared in the kitchen, May shoved three chocolate chip cookies into her hands before pushing her back out the door with an order to bother someone else.

She only had the patience to mother one agent at any given time, and even that was a stretch.

* * *

Life, and work, continued. If the lab did not run quite as smoothly as before – if Fitz seemed a bit unproductive – well, they were transitioning. If the team no longer gelled quite as well without Jemma as peacemaker, and arguments broke out over things that no one had ever argued about before, then… they were transitioning.

The argument over French versus Italian roast proved so bitterly contentious that Coulson, in a rare moment of spite, stocked the kitchen with only decaf and locked all the caffeinated coffee in his bedroom closet. This backfired when Skye picked the locks and questioned his taste in ties to his face at two in the morning.

They transitioned for three more months before Coulson gave up and contacted the one person he knew could get him actual answers, consequences be damned.

And there were, indeed, consequences.

* * *

Natasha punched him in the face, though she did so with a friendly expression and very conscientiously pulled her swing just enough to avoid breaking bone.

It was either a kindness, or she had plans to tie him up in a basement somewhere and torture him. He figured the odds were about even.

"It's about time you called me," she said, patting his cheek in a rare moment of fondness (though it was the same side of his face that she had just planted her fist into, unsurprisingly). "I figured out you were alive ten months ago."

Of course she had.

"You're looking for your missing agent," she continued. "Jemma Simmons? British, pretty, in a great deal of trouble?"

"Not what I was hoping to hear," he replied, hiding his sigh of exasperation. "You can confirm that?"

"I've just heard whispers so far." She shrugged slightly. "I could find out for you."

It wasn't like Natasha to offer up a favor so quickly, especially when she was annoyed with the person in question. She seemed to understand his hesitation. "Sometimes it's best to lay low," she said quietly. "Some things are harder to get past than others."

From her expression, Phil had the feeling that she might be even better acquainted with his medical file than he was- not that such a thing would have been difficult.

"And I don't like what I've been hearing," she continued. "I expected better from SHIELD."

That was worrisome. For Natasha to be displeased with SHIELD, her standards being what they were, meant that something seriously off-kilter had taken root in one of SHIELD's best research facilities. Simmons was not the type to be the architect of such a problem, at least not knowingly, and he didn't like what role that left her in.

"I would appreciate whatever help you are willing to give," he told her after a moment, and she smiled slightly.

"I'm going to tell Clint."

Barton, at least, could keep a secret. "Just please, for the love of God, don't tell Stark."

She smirked. "You mean you don't want him to show up on your windshield mid-flight, asking Agent May if you can come out to play?"

God help him, if that should ever come to pass. May would toss him out of the Bus herself.

* * *

It was three weeks before Natasha made another appearance, this time dropping unexpectedly into the chair across from him at a table in a cafe in Nice.

"I was under the impression that medical experimentation was Hydra's purview, not SHIELD's," she said coolly, anger evident in her eyes.

"Present company excepted," he replied dryly, and she nodded after a moment.

"True enough." She slid an unmarked manila envelope across the table. "Don't open this in public," she warned. "You won't like it, Phil."

He wasn't surprised; had half expected that something terrible would be the end result of his query. "Is she alive, at least?"

Her lips pursed slightly. "For the moment." She sat back in her chair, eyeing him consideringly. "You'll need help to get her out."

He didn't answer her. He didn't need to.

"You can't bring your team in on this," she continued. "It took all of my considerable skill to get my hands on what I've brought you, and it's precious little. They've covered their tracks well enough that you'll have a hard time convincing Fury that the entire department is rotten."

"It's that bad?"

"Worse." She shook her head. "If you drag them into this, at best they'll all end up in prison. At worst, they'll be dead. It doesn't matter that they're trustworthy. And while your new agent is clean, given the choice between the team and SHIELD, he'll choose SHIELD every time." She studied her nails, and then looked up at him from beneath her lashes. It should have been coquettish, or even seductive, but on Natasha it was far more reminiscent of predator eyeing prey. "What are you willing to lose to get her out, Phil?"

The answer, as it turned out, was surprisingly easy and required no consideration at all. "Everything."

He had very little left, after all.

She smiled. "You're a better man than most," was all she said, and the simplicity of her reply was rather terrifying.

* * *

The envelope contained a blurred photocopy of a page from a medical file for a Subject S. Said subject, the notes read, had been restrained and subjected to an open lung biopsy under general anaesthesia. No abnormalities found, though further testing would be required.

Subject was recovering well.

Before New York, he would have been skeptical. SHIELD was not free of corruption, but he had believed them to be above playing god with the lives of their own agents- or so he had thought, in those days before Tahiti. Phil found that it was one thing for Fury to treat him as his own personal experiment in necromancy, but it was quite another to know that someone, somewhere, had authorized using Jemma Simmons as a lab rat. Jemma, who had a smile for everyone she passed in the halls, whose mere presence soothed ragged tempers, who had been brave enough to throw herself out of an airplane rather than risk the lives of everyone around her.

He was going to kill someone, and he found that this knowledge was not distressing in the slightest.

* * *

Barton and Natasha found him when the team was overnighting in Sydney, on one of the rare occasions when he could justify putting the entire team up in a hotel. Last he had seen, Skye and Morgan were babysitting Fitz in the bar, distracting him with ridiculous, unlikely scenarios ("But_what if_ we did run into the Doctor and ninjas at the same time. _What if._ Who would kick Ward's ass first?") and what appeared to be a bottle of scotch. May and Ward had disappeared, no doubt to continue their quietly tempestuous relationship which these days always seemed to hover just on the verge of being completely unacceptable.

But then, Phil was planning on tossing away a respectable career by breaking into a secure SHIELD facility and stealing one of their own assets, so scolding May and Ward for breaking anti-fraternization regs seemed hypocritical and a waste of his time.

Instead, he holed up in his own room on the eighth floor, not surprised when his two former agents opened the locked window and tumbled inside, bristling with assorted weaponry and bringing the rain in with them.

"As I live and breathe," Clint said dramatically, striking a pose. "Phil Coulson, you miraculous bastard."

Well, at least his first move hadn't been to put an arrow in a sensitive spot. "How kind of you to aid me in committing a crime against our own organization."

"If anyone asks, I'll tell them it was a training exercise," Clint replied. "And then I will shout from the rooftops that you're alive, and the ensuing chaos will ensure I get away with everything."

Natasha shook her head slightly. In a certain light, her expression might be mistaken for amusement. "When you're done exchanging quips…"

"Yes, mother," Clint said in mock contrition. "Tell us your plan."

She pulled up a set of building plans on her small tablet. They examined them in silence for a moment, all too familiar with the labyrinthine security system and the seeming impossibility of their task. "I think I'm just going to blow shit up," she finally said, in a calm tone that would not have been out of place in a church sanctuary.

"That's your grand plan?" Clint asked, not sounding doubtful, but rather, intrigued. Excited, even.

She shrugged. "Sometimes brute force is necessary. She's being held here-"

She indicated the south-west quadrant of one of the sub-basement levels.

"-so we go in, create as much confusion as possible, and then everyone disappears." She turned to Clint. "What do you think. Canada?"

"You promised we'd hide somewhere warmer, next time," Clint shot back. "That winter in Siberia was hell, Nat."

Phil had to restrain himself from suggesting Tahiti, magical place or no. "You're both willing to go into exile for this?"

"I've been meaning to take up knitting," Natasha told him very seriously, and he had a sudden mental image of just the kind of damage the Black Widow could do with a circular needle and a pack of DPNs. "It looks very soothing."

Clint grinned. "Finally, a chance to finish that symphony."

Everyone he worked with was absolutely batshit and completely lacking in self-preservation instincts, a fact for which Phil was suddenly very glad.

"Your furlough starts in two weeks?" Natasha queried in a tone that told him she knew exactly when his furlough started, and probably knew exactly what he had eaten for breakfast that morning in the bargain.

"The 21st," he confirmed, and she nodded.

"We'll be ready."


	2. Urtica dioica

_[...] out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety._

-Henry VI, Part 1, Act II, Scene 3

The urge to make his goodbyes was as strong as he had expected. After his death and subsequent resurrection, the lack of closure on basically every relationship he had ever been party to pre-New York had weighed heavily on him. Now, as he approached yet another set of crossroads in his life, the desire to say a few parting words was nearly overwhelming.

Fitz was grieving, that much was obvious. Perhaps he and Simmons had always been a bit too codependent, but their mutual brilliance had justified the quirk, at least as far as SHIELD was concerned. Leo didn't have to be told that Jemma's disappearance signalled something dire. The mere fact that so much time had passed without a word from the woman herself affected the engineer in much the same way her death might. To comfort him would be its own kind of signal, one that Phil could not afford to give.

Skye was quieter than was her wont, and whether she was simply lonely or was attempting to hack deeper into the SHIELD mainframe, Phil was unsure. He regretted that he wouldn't be around to see the agent she would eventually become, though wondered if that might be for the best. Agents with her particular kind of fire tended to become a part of SHIELD's own mythology, and those agents rarely lived to see forty. He had trained enough of those agents to know the pain that each new death brought, and he did not wish to experience that pain again.

Ward was solid, but so busy avoiding his own past that his personality was almost subsumed by his work. _"I'm Agent Grant Ward, and I could kill you with a paper-clip and a banana peel,"_ Jemma's voice whispered in his ear, a half-forgotten memory of overhearing Fitzsimmons and Skye as he passed by the lab flashing through his mind.

As for Morgan, he couldn't look at the man without seeing everything he wasn't.

He avoided thinking about May entirely.

Unfortunately, May didn't intend to let him avoid her.

"What are your plans?" she asked a few days before their break. Surrounded by trees and a ring of scorched earth, they were unlikely to be overheard. "Anything exciting?"

May making small-talk was almost unheard of, and he had never known her to be particularly interested in whatever museum or strawberry festival he might have otherwise been considering visiting. "Nothing in particular," he replied. "Just planning to relax."

She nodded curtly, shooting him a quick glance that told him more than anything that she had a very good idea what he was planning. "Well, I'll be in town. Maybe we could have dinner."

"Maybe."

She brushed her index finger across his palm, so casually that if she had been anyone else he would have thought it an accident. She caught his glance, and smiled so briefly he nearly missed it.

Goodbye, as performed by the peerless Melinda May.

* * *

And so, the morning of the 21st he shouldered one small bag, leaving behind without a single glance most of the possessions that remained to him in this world. He exchanged casual goodbyes with his team, and upon learning that Skye was planning a party he promised to make an appearance, provided that she avoid involving the local law enforcement.

"It's just a nacho party, AC," she had protested. "How much trouble could we get into with beer and salsa?"

He was well enough acquainted with her, and had himself been a member of SHIELD long enough to know that the answer was "plenty."

He left with Lola just as Skye was dragging Fitz into another car by his tie, saying something about aliens and biohazards and zombies, and he dearly hoped that she was roping him into a movie marathon and not planning the apocalypse. That being said, the apocalypse would have been a great distraction for his upcoming heist.

It was a pity that he would have to leave Lola behind, he thought, but she was much too distinctive to risk using as a getaway car- no matter how useful a vehicle that could fly would be. This would be their last ride together, and as such, he savored it. Even driving the speed limit and circling the block, he still found himself at his apartment all too quickly.

He couldn't afford to linger in his goodbyes to a car, no matter how fond he was of her. Instead, he forced himself to walk away, locking the doors with an almost absent-minded air, as if he fully expected to be back for her the next day.

His apartment was cold and dusty, and other than the plainest of furniture and a scattering of personal items, might as well not have been his at all. The fridge, of course, was empty, but he had stopped on his way home for groceries, because why wouldn't he?

And now there was nothing to do but wait for nightfall.

* * *

When Natasha had said "blow shit up," he had imagined something more on the scale of some smoke bombs and a few well-placed incendiary devices. Maximum confusion, minimum body count.

As it turned out, Natasha was not feeling quite so merciful. She had been careful to place her explosives in such a way that they wouldn't do too much damage to the infrastructure of the building, but the only factor that kept the body count minimal was the hour of the night.

They had been unsure exactly what kind of shape Jemma would be in when they finally reached her. Ideally, of course, she would be somewhat mobile. In reality, she was pale and unconscious, and while there were no wounds immediately evident the injection marks on her arms were obvious.

Clint looked as angry as he felt, while Natasha was seemingly impassive. "You'll have to take her," she said, nodding at Phil. She didn't need to say why. Barton had the advantage of youth and an inordinate amount of time spent in a gym as opposed to behind a desk. When force would inevitably be needed, he was the obvious choice.

In any case, Jemma was disturbingly light. Her head lolled against his shoulder, and she didn't give any appearance of being at all aware of her situation, though she shivered reflexively in the crisp night air when they had finally made their way back outside. Clint and Natasha made short work of the remaining guards, working in the synchronized harmony that made them near impossible to defeat.

They made it to the vehicle more quickly that Phil had allowed himself to hope they might, having sustained no injuries more threatening than bruises and minor smoke inhalation. Once Jemma had been safely tucked away on the back row of seats, he focused on driving as quickly as possible away from the now burning building, hoping that no particularly unstable experiments had been lurking in one of the many labs.

Who was he kidding. There was always at least one unstable experiment in any lab, and that included Fitzsimmons' lab on the Bus, regulations be damned.

Natasha acted as field medic in the back of the SUV, unfazed when Phil hit a bump that nearly tossed her against the ceiling. "I'd need x-rays and blood-work to see the full extent of the damage," she informed them calmly, "but if I had to guess they biopsied just about everything they could biopsy. I don't see any evidence of internal bleeding, and if they infected her with anything then they didn't care enough about their own staff to keep her in a proper containment facility."

She turned away from Jemma to lean forward between the seats. "She made them mad, or she tried to run."

"How can you tell?" Clint asked, braced against another bump.

"Caning the bottom of someone's feet isn't your typical medical procedure," she said simply. "She might have a concussion, or she might just be exhausted, or they drugged her. I don't have a clue when you can expect her to wake up, Phil."

"She'll be traumatized," Clint murmured. "She might panic."

"She'll need a nurse," Natasha continued. "We should come with you, at least for a while."

He was sorely tempted by the notion.

She glanced back at Jemma. "She'd be embarrassed if she woke up and realized you'd seen to her most intimate needs," she said shrewdly. "When was the last time you inserted a catheter, Phil?"

She had a point. "It's been about a decade," he admitted. "And that was Sitwell."

Clint gave him a look of exaggerated interest. "Do tell."

"The man gets himself into the strangest situations," Phil said with a sigh. "Including being knocked unconscious by the very person we came to save."

A look of begrudging respect appeared on Natasha's face. "Wish I could have seen that." She settled into the footwell of the backseat, and hesitated. "One more thing."

As if he read her mind, Clint pulled a small box out of the glove compartment. "Slow down, Phil."

"Tracking device?"

"In her shoulder," Natasha said calmly, dousing a scalpel and a patch of skin with rubbing alcohol. "Give me thirty seconds without hitting a pothole, please. Clint, some light."

It wasn't thirty seconds they could afford, but he slowed as Natasha performed impromptu surgery in the back of the car, Clint angling a flashlight dexterously over her shoulder.

"Done," Natasha said crisply, taping a bandage to Jemma's shoulder and flicking a bloody shard of metal out the window. "So," she asked, checking Jemma's pulse, "where are we going?"

Phil was silent for a moment. "Peru."

"Looks like you finally get your wish, Clint," Natasha said wryly. "Phil's going to take you someplace warm."


	3. Citrus bergamia

_[...] down from the radiant-shaking leaves sleep comes dropping  
_-Sappho (Carson)

Phil had been on his share of road trips, but he tended to take them solo. This particular road trip was shaping up to be strangely like the handful he had taken as a college student with his friends, back when he had thought that any imported beer was the height of decadence and had very creative ideas about what could be counted as a fruit or vegetable (corn syrup factored heavily).

Of course, as a college student he had not had access to the seemingly unending selection of vehicles Clint and Natasha apparently had stashed all over the damn country, and if he had worried about meeting with the local law enforcement as a young man, it had everything to do with traffic tickets and not illegally entering a federal facility. He had also never had a semi-conscious woman tucked away in the back of his car.

On the other hand, Clint had apparently taken the time to compile a number of On-The-Run-From-SHIELD playlists on his ipod, because he had been torturing Phil with some of disco's greatest hits (as well as some of disco's least greatest hits, much to his misfortune) ever since the first time they had switched vehicles.

Natasha, who must have come up against this aural threat in the past, had wisely brought a supply of earplugs. She refused to share them with Phil, though he noticed that Jemma at least benefited from her largess.

Jemma had roused several hours after their departure from the facility, though her grasp on consciousness was shaky at best, and what few words she managed to get out were incoherent to Phil's ears. Natasha seemed to understand well enough, though, and after Jemma slipped back into sleep she leaned forward to speak with them quietly.

"She's been drugged," she said, her expression odd, "but I think she'll pull through it soon enough."

"What did she say?" Phil asked, hands tightening around the steering wheel.

She seemed reluctant to reply. "Nothing much."

Clint shot her a knowing glance. "Nat."

Natasha huffed out a breath, annoyed. "She asked me to kill her." She shrugged. "It's too dark back there for her to have recognized me. I think she's just… tired."

It was a brand of tired that Phil was well acquainted with.

Jemma did not improve overly much over the course of the day. She slept, mainly, but roused and followed Natasha's lead complacently enough when asked to do so. Her posture when she was awake was not that of the straight-backed, enthusiastic woman he had known; she slumped inward slightly, her gaze directed toward the ground. She avoided eye contact to such an extent that he was uncertain she even realized who her traveling companions were. It would be easy enough for her to recognize the infamous Black Widow and Hawkeye otherwise, even though the pair looked as if they had just strolled off a campus quad. The outfit Clint had changed into was so ridiculously frat-boy collegiate that Phil felt the oddest urge to ransack his bags and check for pot.

She didn't acknowledge Phil at all, though more than once he had glanced at the rear-view mirror to find her gazing drowsily in his direction, which could mean anything or nothing.

It was late in the afternoon when Clint began fiddling with his ipod, scrolling through the various playlists. "Ah hah!" he finally said in triumph. "Your song, Phil."

The first notes of "Stayin' Alive" burst through the speakers.

Phil was definitely developing a headache.

* * *

She was tired.

So very, very tired.

She'd been drugged, that she knew, and the soles of her feet ached in a distant kind of way. The drugs were unusually strong, she acknowledged through the haze, some part of her mind still striving for rational explanations. Some kind of hallucinogen was mucking with her neural pathways, causing strange visions and odd bits of aural illusions. This, all this- the Black Widow checking her pulse, Hawkeye turning up the volume on the radio, her superior officer making a dry comment about the wisdom of subjecting a sick woman to the dubious merits of KC and the Sunshine Band- was obviously chemically induced.

Still, it was the most amusing series of visions her brain had come up with in quite a while.

It wasn't until they stopped for the night, when Hawkeye had carried her into a gloomy motel room and placed her gently on one of the beds before disappearing into the room next door, that she began to question her initial assumptions. The coverlet, which was an unpleasant shade of maroon, was scratchy beneath her hands. The springs of the mattress creaked as she shifted her weight, feeling as if she was approaching an actual state of alertness for the first time in days.

Jemma looked up at the woman with her- who really was, amazingly enough, Agent Natasha Romanov- more than a little puzzled. "I'm not dreaming," she said slowly, her brief moment of awareness already eroding at the edges as fatigue crept back in. "I'm not in a cell."

"No." Natasha proffered a water bottle, which Jemma accepted with shaking hands. "You're in Ohio."

Jemma considered this as she sipped the water, gradually becoming aware of a number of sensations accompanying the fatigue: hunger, thirst, the discomfort of a full bladder. With all this was pain, which lingered in her joints and flared at odd intervals. Her right shoulder ached as if someone had stuck a knife into it, and her feet felt bruised. She vaguely remembered the feel of something hard smacking against her soles, something to do with blood…

"Can you stand long enough to take a shower?" Natasha asked, rummaging through one of her bags and pulling out several items of clothing. "I'd run you a bath, but I doubt the tub is very clean. You'd probably end up with a disease."

Jemma stood uncertainly, wincing at the bone-deep ache. The pain helped clear her mind, making her suddenly aware of the smell of antiseptic in her hair and on her skin. "I can stand," she lied, taking a few tottering steps toward the bathroom.

Natasha gave her a wry look, obviously aware that Jemma was anything but ready to stand for an extended period of time, but didn't argue. "I guessed at your size," she said instead, slipping a steadying arm around Jemma's waist and dropping the bundle of clothing next to the sink. "Don't play at modesty. If you slip and break a leg, Phil will shoot me. I'd rather you ask for help if you need it."

Jemma nodded, too tired to argue, and allowed Natasha to strip her in an efficient, impersonal manner. The other woman didn't avert her gaze, but Jemma recognized the practiced eye of someone with a thorough grounding in medicine. Natasha's scrutiny wasn't sexual. It was quite obvious that she was making a mental inventory of every bruise and every laceration, and that she probably realized that the newly sharpened and flattened angles of Jemma's body had nothing to do with exercise.

She pulled a bloodied bandage off of Jemma's right shoulder, frowning at the wound it revealed. "Sorry about that," she said, cleaning the deep cut gently. "We had to get rid of a tracking device."

So they'd tagged her like an animal. Jemma shouldn't have been surprised, but she was.

Soon enough Jemma was back on her uncomfortable bed, clumsily dragging a comb through her wet hair. Natasha's shampoo and conditioner smelled pleasantly of bergamot oil. It was the first time in months that she had smelled of anything other than disinfectants, and her olfactory senses were a bit overwhelmed. She felt visually overwhelmed, as well, her eyes unused to anything other than plain white walls and fluorescent lights. The world was suddenly textured and vibrant again, even in this drab room. She patted the coverlet with one hand, the worn nap catching against her dry skin.

There was a knock on the connecting door. Natasha released the lock and stepped back to wave someone in.

In an odd way, it was the presence of Coulson that surprised Jemma more than anything else. It was easier to believe that she had been extracted by the two most notorious assassins in SHIELD history, who were well-known for being eccentric and ignoring orders in favor of their own whims, than to believe that Agent Phil Coulson would toss his entire life to the wayside to pull her out of SHIELD custody.

He might have ignored orders in an attempt to save her life once, but this was on an entirely different level.

"Are you mad?" she found herself blurting out. "They'll have you court-martialed for this."

Natasha snorted, busying herself with the bag of food Coulson had handed her.

He seemed nonplussed by her outburst, and she was suddenly very conscious of the fact that there were gamboling lambs on her pajama bottoms. She was unsure if Natasha had just grabbed the first pair she had seen in the store that were her approximate size, or if Natasha thought she was the kind of person who wore pajamas covered in infant barnyard creatures.

Admittedly, up until eight months ago Jemma had been the kind of person who probably would have worn the same attire without a second thought.

After a moment he shrugged. "I'm not planning on giving them a chance," he admitted, taking a seat on Natasha's bed. "Do you need anything?"

She wasn't sure how to answer that particular question. What she needed was never to have left the Bus in the first place, but she doubted he had a Time Turner stashed away. What she needed was a set of forged identity papers, an untraceable bank account, and a cave to hide in for the next fifty or so years, and she guessed that he had already lined up all of that- except, perhaps, the cave.

A pity. A part of her had always fancied a mountain lair. Very mad scientist.

She needed Fitz, but the odds she would be seeing him anytime soon were as good as Coulson actually producing a Time Turner.

Natasha plucked the comb from her hands, replacing it with a cup filled with soup. Jemma stared silently down at the golden surface of the broth, half afraid her shaking hands would send the contents spilling over her lap. "No, thank you," she finally told him, concentrating on keeping her hands still. "I'm fine."

A polite fiction, as they all knew.

The creak of the springs from the bed opposite her signaled that he had stood, and her hope that he was leaving the room was dashed when his hands wrapped around her own, the mattress next to her dipping beneath his weight. There was a rustle as Natasha slipped into the room next door, leaving them to their awkward silence.

A murmured conversation in Russian trickled in from the next room. Jemma took a deep breath, eyes trained downward at his hands supporting hers. "Thank you," she said, compressing everything she might otherwise have said into those two words. She didn't have the composure necessary to fully address the sacrifices made by her three rescuers. It was easier to pretend she was just thanking him for this little thing; if she attempted to thank him for the enormity of his actions she would only end up sobbing uncontrollably.

He didn't respond, only tightened his hands infinitesimally around hers.

In the quiet of the room, he helped her drink, and if it was a little bit embarrassing, it was hardly the worst thing Jemma had experienced in the past eight months.

* * *

They left early the next morning, Clint behind the wheel. While the younger man was otherwise occupied, Phil scrolled through the albums on the ipod, growing increasingly frustrated. "You did this on purpose, didn't you?" he finally asked as he reached the end of the long list of disco, reggae and Britney Spears-esque pop. "This is your revenge for my disappearance."

Clint's smirk was answer enough. He reached over and snatched the ipod out of Phil's hands, and in complete disregard for motor vehicle safety leisurely scrolled through the listing before selecting Avril Lavigne.

In the rearview mirror Phil saw Natasha roll her eyes and proffer a set of earplugs and a pair of sunglasses to Jemma, who accepted them with a relieved sigh. Within minutes she seemed to fall asleep, her coat bunched into a makeshift pillow behind her head.

Natasha pulled a book out of her purse, her expression indicating that she intended to ignore them for the rest of the morning. Not that this fooled Phil; he knew that she would be able to quote verbatim any conversation he and Clint might have, earplugs or no.

"We have a friend in the north-west," Clint said maybe twenty minutes later. "She could get us where we need to go."

In the mirror he saw Natasha nod slightly before casually turning a page.

Phil didn't need to inquire if this person was trustworthy. Clint wouldn't even have mentioned the possibility if she wasn't, and while this would temporarily take them in the opposite direction of their final destination, that was all for the better. "You know the way."

Clint nodded, tapping his fingers in time with the music against the steering wheel. "Now that that's settled, perhaps you'd like to hear my thoughts on 'Sk8ter Boi' as the new _West Side Story_."

"No."

"You're right; I'll wait until I can show you the powerpoint I prepared on the subject."

* * *

Jemma woke several hours later, temporarily disoriented until she remembered her current situation. It hadn't been some strange fever dream; she really was on the run from her own personal Mengele while in the company of three living legends, one of whom was currently singing along to Shakira while another bartered for a pair of earplugs from the Black Widow.

Her life had taken a very odd turn.

She took off the sunglasses, squinting in the noonday sun, and pulled out her own set of earplugs to better follow the current conversation. Natasha thrust a bottle of water in her direction without looking away from Coulson, whose currency in this particular trade seemed to be home-cooked meals.

"A month of meals," Natasha said coolly.

"For one pair of earplugs? You aim too high, Nat."

"Then what is your sanity worth to you?" Natasha asked him as Clint transitioned to 'Genie in a Bottle.' "Anything less than three weeks is an insult."

"Two weeks."

She tilted her head slightly to the side, considering the offer. "Two weeks, with dessert."

"Deal." He caught the small packet of earplugs that she tossed in his direction. "How much of my soul would I have to sell you for some aspirin?"

Natasha's small, wicked smile apparently gave him his answer, because he turned away from her with a sigh. "Coffee, then?"

Luckily for Coulson, assassins were just as motivated by caffeine as senior agents. This meant, however, that a new negotiation about where they would obtain said caffeine was required. Natasha apparently had very strong negative feelings about Starbucks, feelings that inspired her to pull out a knife in a manner that she didn't even attempt to pretend was non-threatening.

They finally settled on a small coffee shop that appeared like magic around a bend in the road, roughly around the time Jemma began developing her own headache. "Do we have any aspirin?" she asked Natasha quietly as they exited the car, and the assassin eyed her speculatively before handing her a small bag. The contents proved to be an impressive selection of antibiotics and painkillers, the majority of which were only available with a prescription.

Jemma wouldn't even allow herself to consider taking anything stronger than aspirin. She was not eager to experience a drugged haze again anytime soon, and while the aspirin would only dilute her current level of pain, it was preferable to anything that might be more effective. She swallowed several pills with the last of her water, palming two more before returning the bag to Natasha.

Her efforts at sleight of hand were in vain. Natasha raised a brow, looking faintly amused.

Jemma dropped the pills into Coulson's hand as she passed him, hoping that the tea here would be worth drinking.


	4. Rosmarinus officinalis

_[Rosemary] helpeth the brain, strengtheneth the memorie, and is very medicinable for the head. Another property of the rosemary is, it affects the heart._  
-"A Marriage Present," Roger Hacket

_There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray, love, remember._  
-Hamlet, Act 4, Scene 5

Jemma called a halt to the never-ending stream of unbearably upbeat music the afternoon of day four. "Have you ever heard of Mozart? Beethoven? Rachmaninoff?" she asked Clint, perhaps a bit more testily than the situation warranted. "I will even accept sea shanties, at this point."

Clint seemed to appreciate the idea of sea shanties. "I wish I had thought of that earlier," he replied with enthusiasm, before launching into a respectable version of 'The Mariner's Revenge Song.'

"How many sea shanties does he know?" Jemma asked Natasha, who shook her head.

"Too many. He spent some time on an Alaskan fishing boat… actually, you don't want to know this story."

"You really don't," Coulson muttered from the driver's seat.

"Though his beard was quite respectable by the end of the whole ordeal," Natasha continued, and delivered a sudden kick to the back of Clint's seat. "Stop."

Clint complied with a sigh. "If music be the food of love, Nat, let me play on."

By her expression, it was obvious that Natasha's love for Clint was in spite of his musical proclivities, rather than inspired by them. "As much as I appreciate your efforts to punish Phil for his wrongdoings, even I'm ready to forgive him." She studied her nails. "Probably."

Jemma caught a sudden glimpse of Coulson's exasperated face in the rearview mirror. "Well," she said after a moment, "he was under orders."

An awkward silence descended on the car in the wake of her words. Acting under orders held its own risks, a fact they all knew quite well.

"How about The Weakerthans?" Clint asked suddenly.

"No," was the unanimous answer.

* * *

Their route to North Dakota was circuitous in the extreme, exacerbated by the need to switch vehicles on a regular basis. It was a relief when, six days after their exodus, Natasha said they would arrive at their destination the next day. She gathered them in one room that night, the thick envelope she had picked up earlier that day in her hands.

"IDs," she said curtly, handing each person a passport and a handful of assorted identification papers. "Don't gripe about your new name, Clint."

"Eugene," Clint muttered in a disgusted tone. "Dammit, Nat."

Phil examined his new passport. Jonathan Eugene Phillips, a resident of British Columbia, Canada. It was a particularly terrible picture, which meant the falsified paperwork would most likely pass inspection at any border check. There were a number of forged stamps reflecting entrances and exits scattered on the back pages; he was mildly interested to note that Jonathan had apparently been to Italy five times in the past six years.

"You'll notice you were named for your sainted uncle," Natasha told Clint, amused. "Say hello to your Uncle Jonathan and Aunt Rosemary."

"Are you my Aunt Rosemary?" Clint asked with a grin. "Because if so, our relationship is very inappropriate."

"No, I'm Rosemary," Jemma admitted, a faint blush on her cheeks. "I trust our relationship isn't inappropriate."

"Not yet," Clint retorted, ducking the apple Natasha threw at his head. "Allow me to congratulate you, Uncle Jonathan, on landing such an exceptional wife."

Jemma's blush deepened. "Hopefully this will go better than the operation on the train," she said with a smile that looked a tad bit forced. "You really do look much too young to have a daughter my age."

Phil accepted the ring Natasha offered him, smiling slightly. "Just leave my plurality of prostitutes out of it, this time."

"Obviously we missed a really fun mission," Clint whispered sotto voce to Natasha, who handed him his own ring with a rueful shake of her head before putting on her own.

She handed Jemma her pair of rings last, a plain gold band and a second studded with sapphires and diamonds. The gleam of metal and polished stone did not look out of place on Jemma's slim hand, and she studied the effect with an almost wistful air.

Phil had long suspected that Fitzsimmons were either already engaged in a relationship, or were on the verge of beginning one. Judging by her expression, he guessed the latter. How long had they been sidestepping the issue, constrained by regulations or shyness or some combination thereof? In the meantime, they had knit themselves so tightly together that even SHIELD had previously hesitated on separating them. Fitzsimmons got results, and that had been enough until Jemma inadvertently proved herself to be an interesting specimen.

It was a waste of potential, really. The children of Jemma Simmons and Leopold Fitz would have been intellectually unstoppable.

* * *

His sleep was truncated by a series of sobbed screams next door. Before he could even move Phil heard Natasha bound off of her own bed, and by the time he had reached the connecting door Clint was already tossing their things into bags, preparing for a quick exit.

In the next room Natasha was doing the same, having already ascertained that the only enemy in the room was composed of memory and shadow. Jemma sat in the middle of her bed, shaking, the sheets twisted around her legs.

Her head snapped up as Phil stepped into the room, a panicked expression on her face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

She was interrupted by Natasha, who dropped a bundle of clothing on her lap. "You need to get dressed," she said, not unsympathetically. "We have to leave before someone gets too curious."

Jemma nodded jerkily, scrambling off the bed to half-run into the bathroom.

Phil returned to the other room, quickly pulling on his own clothing as Clint finished packing. "She's okay?" Clint asked, tugging a shirt over his head.

"Fine," Phil replied. "Just a nightmare."

Of course, in their line of work nightmares often took on a life of their own. There was really no such thing as "just" a nightmare, when the dream was firmly rooted in experience, bringing new life to memory. His own nightmares were fully occupied by a strange and grotesque blend of Tahiti and his many operations, the gaps in his own knowledge lending a sinister edge to the white sands and blue waters of his artificial memories.

Within ten minutes they were all back in the car. Their sudden departure would be even more suspicious than Jemma's screams, but to stay would be to risk an encounter with a cop convinced that he or she had stumbled upon a domestic incident that required investigation. It would take too much time to convince them that Jemma, who had obviously been through some kind of ordeal, did not need aid.

For the first time Phil found himself in the backseat with Jemma, who had curled herself into as compact a position as the seat belt would allow.

"I'm really very sorry," she whispered, ducking her chin.

"Don't be," he told her quietly, reaching for her nearest hand, which proved to be her left. The rings she wore were cool against his palm.

He had understood, in the weeks before the plan went into action, the ramifications of his choice: a life of perpetually looking over his shoulder, not only responsible for keeping himself alive, but Jemma as well, because he could hardly extract her from SHIELD custody only to abandon her in a foreign country. He had thought that the two of them together might be able to find a way to expose the bad seeds who had somehow escaped detection thus far, allowing them to eventually return to their old lives. He hadn't been particularly concerned about spending most of his time in Jemma's company; she was congenial, after all, and a fascinating conversationalist.

Now, Natasha's decision to pair the four of them off into married couples added a new dimension to this envisioned future. He could spend years, even decades, playing the role of attentive husband in public, and he was not so much a fool as to imagine that it wouldn't eventually leak over into their private life. Jemma was the type of person who loved easily and whole-heartedly, and if he was honest with himself, he knew that he was too starved for companionship to resist the temptation.

He could be a good husband for her, he found himself thinking, the gold of her wedding band warming against his skin until it felt like a natural extension of her hand. Fidelity had always been one of his strengths, and she really was quite lovely.

It was, however, highly likely that she was still in love with Fitz, and it remained to be seen how drastically her recent experiences had impacted the Jemma he had known. They might have tempered the steel he had always suspected lay within her. She might, like Melinda after Bahrain, grow sober and silent as the initial shock passed, losing some of her ebullient nature.

There might even be something darker lurking, some damage hidden too deep to be readily apparent. It was too early to tell.

Her hand grew limp in his as she fell back into sleep, her tense limbs relaxing. He would be glad when they finally reached Lima, and could stay in one place for an extended period of time. Jemma was obviously still exhausted, and the constant travel wasn't helping.

In addition to that, her lack of appetite was obvious. She ate but sparingly, as if she had learned to be distrustful of any food that wasn't prepared by her own hands. He wouldn't be half-surprised if her doctors had been slipping some kind of sedative into her meals. It made him glad that he had made his bargain with Natasha, though there was no guarantee that Jemma would trust him enough to eat anything he made without reservations. Her hesitancy might well be habit, by this point.

He wondered, briefly, if he had been wrong to leave Fitz behind. Natasha had been correct when she noted the danger inherent in involving anyone else, but he had no doubt that if there was one person Jemma could still trust completely, it would be Fitz. Perhaps he had been foolhardy- selfish, even- to deny his team a chance to join the endeavor.

It was very much a damned if you do, damned if you don't kind of situation. His one consolation, small as it was, was that whatever the fallout might be, May would take care of the others. She never had been able to leave a teammate behind. It was both her greatest strength and her greatest weakness.

* * *

There had been blood on her hands, and she couldn't fathom how she had forgotten it until the dream had dragged the memory out of whatever dark corner it had been lurking in. Somehow, the drugs and the pain had obscured the truth, at least temporarily.

Now, of course, she remembered all too well the slight resistance of the scalpel against tender flesh, the surprise on the nurse's face when quiet, cowed Jemma had suddenly turned on her. They hadn't expected violence from Jemma, not when the worst they had come to expect from her was tears and pleas.

Perhaps they had forgotten that Jemma had medical training herself, or perhaps they had simply reached a point where they didn't even bother coming up with a suitable lie. The fact remained that, even drugged, Jemma knew exactly what instruments were used for a PAP smear, and what had been waiting in the examining room was not that kind of equipment.

Still, even she had been surprised when the small blade sliced open the nurse's carotid artery, and it was that surprise that kept her rooted in place, transfixed by the spill of scarlet against white skin.

She never found out what happened to the nurse, nor the woman's name. They had dragged her unresisting back to her cell, where three orderlies had held her prone against the floor while a fourth whipped the bottom of her feet until she screamed herself hoarse. It was the first time they had caused her pain in such a way that couldn't be explained as a medical procedure, and that had scared her more than anything: more than the fact that she might be a murderer, more than the collection of gleaming needles that had been in the examination room, more than the way they never used her name anymore.

She didn't remember anything after that. Her memory jumped the gap, picking back up in the pre-dawn hours of an unknown day, when she had begged a shadowy figure to put her out of her misery.

In retrospect, it was not the best way to introduce yourself to someone, especially when that someone was the Black Widow.

And now she was curled up in the back of the car, the streetlights giving way to dark country roads as they continued north. A little over a week ago her hands had been spattered in blood, had smeared crimson against white linoleum as she struggled against three men who pressed her firmly against the cold floor. Now her left hand, already foreign with its unaccustomed burden of metal and stone, was securely clasped in Coulson's right, his index finger resting lightly against her pulse.

She was now Rosemary Ann Phillips, and perhaps that was for the best. She was fairly certain that Jemma Simmons had died that night, three floors underground and eight months removed from the sun.

Slowly, sneakily, fatigue stole upon her, and anchored as she was to someone else, Jemma slept.


	5. Ruta graveolens

_There's rue for you; and here's some for me: we may call it herb of grace a ' Sundays. You may wear your rue with a difference._  
-Hamlet, Act 4, Scene 5

It was almost eight in the evening when they stopped for the last time. On a stretch of abandoned runway a small plane waited, its pilot leaning nonchalantly against one side. It was an aircraft built for speed and stealth, not sport, though Phil was interested to note that it was not a design he recognized- not SHIELD, not Hydra, nor any other agency he was familiar with.

She flicked her cigarette butt away as they approached, pushing a stray lock of graying blonde hair behind one ear. "Natasha, Boris," she said in greeting, smirking. "Still chasing after Moose and Squirrel?"

Natasha looked irritated. "I really hate that joke."

"I know, dear," the woman responded. "That's why I like it so much." She extended a hand to Phil. "Call me Margaret," she said. "I hear I'm dropping you folks in Brazil?"

Phil nodded, shaking her hand firmly. From Brazil they could go anywhere, and it was best if no one but them knew of their final destination, no matter how trustworthy the contact. "We appreciate your help."

She cast a sharp glance at Jemma, frowning slightly. "Not a problem." She snapped her fingers at Clint. "Come on, pretty boy. The evening is flying by."

Clint- who apparently had come up against this woman numerous times before, and knew better than to argue- began loading their baggage into the small cargo hold as the others entered the cramped interior. There were seats enough for six, including the pilot, but they were so small Phil found himself sitting hip to hip with Jemma, who gave him an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry if I drool on your shoulder," she said, her eyelids already drooping. "At least I don't snore."

"Definitely grounds for divorce," he joked, and her quiet laugh verged on a keen. There was something new to her demeanor, something that had appeared in the time since their hurried departure early that morning. She seemed sadder, if that was possible. He wasn't sure if the full impact of reality was finally hitting her, or if like him she was experiencing an unpleasant surge in newly discovered memories. Perhaps a combination of both.

In any case, her reticence to be touched had temporarily diminished, and now she slumped against his side, head resting against his shoulder. "Where do you think we met?" she murmured as Margaret started the plane. "You know me and my backstories."

He considered the question. "Perhaps I'm a professor who seduced my pretty TA."

She wrinkled her nose. "No, thank you." She yawned. "I think we met at a museum. I like the Impressionists."

"And I liked the beautiful woman who likes the Impressionists."

She lifted her head slightly to glance up at him, appearing as if she meant to argue over his choice of adjectives. He cut her off before she could start. "Jonathan thinks Rosemary is beautiful." He hesitated slightly. "Which you are. Don't argue with facts."

Jemma didn't seem to find that argument particularly persuasive, but she refrained from objecting and dropped her head again. "Jonathan is a romantic."

"Jonathan can't help himself."

"Hmm."

Her eyes were closed, so she missed the smug smile Natasha gave him. He should have known. She was matchmaking.

Dammit.

* * *

Jemma slept through most of the flight, waking only as they began to descend. A quick glance confirmed that she had, indeed, drooled on Coulson's shoulder, which was very embarrassing.

She supposed she should get used to thinking about him as Phil- or really, Jonathan. Jonathan, who thought Rosemary was beautiful. Perhaps Rosemary was the type of person who wouldn't be embarrassed about drooling on her husband's shoulder.

Idly she found herself wondering what their marriage was like. Did they fight often? Did they spend quiet Sunday mornings on the couch with the paper and coffee, or did he wake her in the soft early light, hands stroking over hips and breasts, lingering in the dip of her waist and on the curve of her thighs?

She was blushing, she suddenly realized, over her own fictional sex life.

Still, she liked the idea that Rosemary and Jonathan were sexually compatible. Rosemary was unclear to her, almost a cypher, but she imagined that Jonathan would be much like Phil himself: warm, kind, and considerate… both in bed and out, though obviously she had no experience with the former. And while her daydreams were inconvenient, they had temporarily distracted her from, well, everything.

Everything, that is, except for Fitz. This imaginary life shouldn't feel like cheating, but it did. They had never been anything other than professional partners and friends, but the possibility of more had hovered so closely around them for the past few years that she couldn't help but feel guilty. She belonged to him, and yet she didn't. There had never been a place for her in his bed, or for him in hers, but that was solely because they had never gotten around to asking.

There had always been this sense that they had time, but that had proved to be a lie. And shouldn't they have seen that coming? Why hadn't they given in after her brush with death, or his mission with Ward, or any of the myriad other times that their work had reminded them of their own mortality? What had held them back?

She really didn't know, and now she never would. In any case, the point was moot. She was here, and Fitz was not, and they would most likely never see each other again.

They were, she mused, far too codependent in the first place.

Or at least that was the excuse she told herself.

* * *

They landed on a small airstrip about four miles outside the city of Manaus. "The jeep's yours," Margaret said, inclining her head to the worn vehicle. "A pleasure, as always," she told Natasha and Clint, shaking their hands with a grin. "I'd tell you to stay out of trouble, but I'd be wasting my breath."

"Nat's a trouble magnet," Clint agreed. Natasha, who had begun thoroughly sweeping the vehicle for bugs and tracking devices, responded with a vulgar gesture.

Margaret turned to Jemma. "You're in good hands, love, but you already knew that." She exchanged nods with Phil before climbing back aboard the plane.

She left them, there, on that empty tarmac surrounded by rainforest. Natasha finally approved the vehicle with a thump of her fist to the hood, and nodded at Clint and Phil to begin loading their baggage. "We should stay in Manaus for a few days," she said, casting a sideways glance at Jemma. "We need clothing that is less conspicuous. After that we can take a boat to Iquitos, and from there a flight to Lima."

"You've even picked out departure dates and times, haven't you?" Clint asked teasingly.

"I have preferences." She slid smoothly into the driver's seat. "I hope you've been practicing your Portuguese, Clint."

"Night and day, Nat."

The hotel Natasha chose was surprisingly posh, in Jemma's estimation. Despite their old jeep and travel-worn clothing, Natasha managed to charm the hotel staff into renting them one of their best suites when they might have otherwise been shown the door.

"A pity we're not going to be here for the opera festival," she said as they performed a sweep of the rooms. "I've always wanted to attend."

Jemma, whose appreciation of the finer things in life had been temporarily dulled, merely wanted them to approve the rooms so that she could have a shower and a nap, in that order. She slumped by the door as she waited, suddenly conscious that she had yet another item to add to her list of recent illegalities: she had entered a foreign country without passing through border control. This had never been a problem when she had been an agent of SHIELD, and had been endowed with the authority of an international agency to go where need be without regard to the same strictures imposed upon civilians. Now she was a possible murderer on the run from said international agency, and she would shortly be crossing another border under an alias.

She barely recognized herself. When had Jemma Simmons become a criminal?

The suite finally approved, she moved into one of the bedrooms as Phil picked up the phone to call the front desk. There was only one bed, but it was so large she doubted she and Natasha would come within three feet of each other, even asleep.

It was the bathroom that took her breath away, and that was solely because of the gleaming tub that could probably fit four comfortably. Jemma was well-enough acquainted with microbiology to know the dangers that might be lurking in the tub's seemingly spotless interior, but she found she didn't care. She ached in every fiber of her body, and at this point she would fight Natasha for the right to soak for an hour.

Really, it was as if she was another person entirely. Perhaps this was Rosemary creeping through.

There was a fortuitous knock on the door just as she began to feel herself slipping into a doze, which probably would have been disastrous. "What?"

"You need to eat," Natasha said firmly, her voice muffled by the door. "You have ten minutes. If you are not out here in ten minutes, I will drag you naked into the sitting room."

Jemma had no doubt that Natasha would do exactly that, and she did not want to run the risk of lingering any longer only to have Natasha burst in when she was halfway dressed. She stepped out of the tub regretfully, her annoyance only slightly diminished by the dense plush of the towels.

It was not until she was toweling herself dry that she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. There hadn't been many mirrors in the facility. Her few glimpses of herself had been in the semi-reflective glass of the examining rooms and the polished steel of the instrument trays. Once on the run, the small, spotted mirrors of the motels had concealed the full truth from her.

She had scars, now, and she could only guess at what had caused most of them. One looked to be a souvenir of an appendectomy, though she didn't recall having a bout with appendicitis. Another adorned the curve of one breast, and yet another on her chest, above her right lung. Small, mysterious circular scars dotted her back and torso, akin to what might form after a mole removal. The newest wound was the only one she could explain with any certainty: Natasha's handiwork.

Jemma had never been so thin, had never been able to count her own ribs or see the sharp jut of her hipbones. It was hardly a wonder that the clothing Natasha had supplied was loose, if she had been basing the sizing on official SHIELD records of her weight.

She leaned closer to the mirror, seeing for the first time the dullness of her skin and how limp her hair had become. Proper rest and diet would take care of those problems soon enough, if she could stand to stomach anything. She was having a hard time readjusting to the idea that food could be safe, when for so long it had been used for trickery.

Suddenly she became aware that her time was surely running short, and she pulled her clothing on quickly, avoiding the sight of herself in the mirror. She had seen enough.

* * *

Natasha approached a shopping trip in much the same way she might plan a massacre, which was to say that she was extremely thorough and intended to leave no survivors.

Jemma was not sure she was emotionally or physically prepared for such an endeavor.

"Good luck," Clint said as they left the suite, and Jemma cast a pleading look back at him, which was ignored.

"We'll buy your clothing a little loose," Natasha informed her when they reached her chosen destination, a street filled with shops that normally would have been too rich for Jemma's blood. "You'll fit into everything soon enough."

Jemma was fairly certain that there was an unspoken _or else_ implied in Natasha's words. "How are we- ah- affording this?"

Natasha shot her a cool look. "Believe me when I say that money is not a problem."

Jemma couldn't help but wonder if Natasha and Clint had helped themselves to Tony Stark's slush fund before leaving town, or if they had just emptied one of his bank accounts entirely.

Natasha pulled her into a small boutique, which proved to specialize in lingerie. "Don't argue," she snapped, reading the look on Jemma's face all too clearly. "If the underpinnings aren't correct, then nothing fits right. You'll thank me someday."

She addressed one of the shop employees in rapid fire Portuguese, waving her hand at Jemma with a look on her face that clearly said _look at this girl, I can't do a thing with her._

The employees sprang into action, collecting an alarming amount of lace and silk as Natasha pushed Jemma into one of the dressing rooms with a firm hand. "I'm really not sure about this," Jemma protested. "I really don't need, er, pink lace underwear."

Natasha tossed her hair back. "Don't be ridiculous. Every woman needs some lace," she said, as certain as if the maxim was engraved in stone somewhere. "Men find it very distracting," she continued, and turned slightly to say something to one of the shop girls before looking back at Jemma. "Is this your usual cup size, or should we buy several different sizes for you?"

Jemma's answer was somewhere between a sigh and a splutter.

Over the course of the afternoon Natasha dragged her into a half dozen stores, ignoring any objections Jemma might offer to her selections. Admittedly, Natasha's sartorial taste lay within the borders of Jemma's comfort zone. There were no Peter Pan collars or prim cardigans, but the classic lines of her new wardrobe were appealing, even if the colors were brighter than what Jemma would have chosen and the fabrics draped closer than she was accustomed to.

"There," Natasha said, tweaking the hemline of a full-skirted floral sundress with a sure hand, and stood back to give Jemma a final once-over. She looked triumphant. "Perfect," she said, and checked her watch. "Good, we still have time for shoes."

Jemma didn't bother lodging a protest. Natasha would do as she pleased, and there was nothing Jemma could do to stop her.

* * *

"Please tell me you didn't have her walk over half of Manaus," Phil said in exasperation, standing very nearly toe to toe with Natasha. "Her feet still haven't completely healed."

"True," she responded calmly. "But it's done, and now she can rest until we leave."

He should have known better, really. Natasha had always put preparation first; it was how she had survived this long. He pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing himself to calm down. "And how long is that, exactly?"

She tilted her head slightly. "There's a boat to Iquitos in three days time. I've already purchased our tickets."

"Of course you have."

She continued as if she hadn't noticed his sarcasm, though he knew he would most likely pay for it later. "It caters to tourists, of course. The journey will take ten days, but by all accounts the accommodations will be comfortable enough."

"By whose standards?" Clint asked warily.

She shot him a look. "I think even Phil will be pleased. Besides, he'll be too busy fretting over sharing a cabin with Jemma." Natasha cut Phil off before he could speak. "Don't bother arguing about it, Phil. Why would she share a cabin with her niece and not her husband?"

Phil had only been planning to argue for the sake of arguing. Natasha was right, of course. His reluctance stemmed from a desire to cause Jemma as little discomfort as possible, and he feared that forcing her into close quarters with him would accomplish the exact opposite of that.

Natasha sighed. "I'll talk to her about it beforehand. Everything will be fine."

He glanced toward the shut door of Jemma and Natasha's room, where his supposed wife slept. "I want her to feel safe with me."

The look she gave him was almost bewildered. "Phil Coulson, when have you ever made one of your charges feel unsafe?"

It was the greatest compliment she had ever given him.

* * *

Natasha was waiting when she woke up, and though Jemma was lying on eiderdown and surrounded by warmth, for a split-second it was as if she were back in the SUV.

At least this time she had the sense not to beg for death.

"You have to share a bed with Phil," Natasha said bluntly, moving to sit cross-legged next to Jemma's still supine form.

Jemma blinked at her, half-asleep. "Right now?"

"No, on the ship. You understand why, don't you?"

Jemma nodded, her mouth suddenly dry. "Jonathan and Rosemary," she said simply, and Natasha nodded.

"It will be a good trial run," the other woman said soothingly. "You need to learn how to act like a couple in public. Really, the hardest part will be convincing Phil not to sleep on the floor." She patted Jemma on the arm. "Go back to sleep. It's only three in the morning."

Natasha rolled away to her side of the bed and switched off the light, leaving Jemma in turmoil in the dark. "Natasha?" she whispered after a few minutes of thought.

"Yes?"

"How _do_ I keep him from sleeping on the floor?"

Natasha laughed quietly. "Threaten to join him."

It was a less than helpful answer.


	6. Anemone coronaria

_That said, she sprinkled scented nectar on_  
_his blood, which then fermented, even as_  
_bright bubbles form when raindrops fall on mud._  
_One hour had yet to pass when, from that gore,_  
_a bloodred flower sprang, the very color_  
_of pomegranates when the fruit is ripe_  
_and hides sweet seeds beneath its pliant rind._  
_And yet Adonis' blossoms have brief life:_  
_his flower is light and delicate; it clings_  
_too loosely to the stem and thus is called_  
_Anemone- 'born of the wind' - because_  
_winds shake its fragile petals, and they fall._  
-_Metamorphoses_, Ovid (Mandelbaum)

At any other time, Phil would have been pleased to find himself with several days free to explore the city of Manaus and the surrounding environs. Located in the middle of the Amazon rainforest, Manaus had been famed as the Paris of the Tropics in the 1800s, and while its glory had faded somewhat since those golden years, it remained prosperous and culturally vibrant.

Instead, he stayed in the general vicinity of the hotel, enjoying slow mornings and quiet afternoons. Natasha and Clint spent most of their time out of the suite, disappearing into the streets of Manaus and returning late in the evenings looking pleased with themselves. He refrained from questioning them about their activities, knowing that they were wise enough to avoid unnecessary trouble. Whether they were taking in the sights or spying on one of the local embassies- or both- they would stay under the radar.

He remained with Jemma, who seemed to benefit more from the quiet and slow pace than anything else. She spent most of her time curled up on one end of the couch in the sitting room, reading one of the books Natasha had acquired early in their stay. It wasn't unusual for him to look over at her to find that she had fallen asleep mid-chapter, book propped against her knees.

The nightmares were still present, as far as he could tell, but she hadn't screamed since that one night. She was restless in her sleep, her expressions betraying her discomfort. Awake, she never made reference to what haunted her, and he was reluctant to press for more information.

Instead, he coaxed her out of their rooms for quiet walks in the surrounding neighborhood and meals in the small local cafes, distracting her with stories calculated to amuse. His tales of May pre-Bahrain delighted her so much that she not only laughed, but actually finished the pastries that he had ordered. She absent-mindedly licked a stray drop of chocolate off of her thumb, a small, ordinary moment that inexplicably played repeatedly in his mind throughout the day.

It was in the public gardens that she seemed to be the most alive, lingering to examine the exotic flora with a look of intense interest on her face.

"My father is a gardener," she explained, leaning closer to a bush covered in brilliant red-orange flowers. "Roses, mainly, but he also grows herbs for my mother."

"Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme?" he quipped, pleased when she smiled.

"Yes, and lavender and mint besides." She stroked one bloom with a light finger, a bittersweet expression on her face. "I suppose they think I'm dead."

It wouldn't do any good to lie. "Most likely."

She nodded, moving on to a patch of exotic orchids a few yards away. "At least they'll never know the truth." Her skirt brushed against the bush as she passed, dislodging several petals to fall in her wake.

He had to give Natasha credit. The wardrobe she had selected for Jemma was flattering, and somehow managed to make her look healthier than she actually was. The eye skipped over Jemma's pale skin and thin frame, noticing instead the elegant drape of cloth and play of color.

She slipped her arm through the crook of his elbow when he caught up to her, fingers resting lightly against his sleeve. It felt natural, for all that she had never done so before, and he rested his other hand against hers. Jemma looked at him uncertainly. "Is this alright?" she asked, her steps slowing.

A drop of rain landed on his face, a warning of an oncoming storm. "Perfectly fine," he said truthfully, and ushered her into the shelter of a nearby gazebo as the rain began in earnest. The breeze picked up, and he wrapped his jacket around her when she began to shiver.

"I never should have said yes," she said a few minutes later. "When they asked me to go, I never should have said yes."

"No one could have known what would happen," he replied, taking her hand, and she moved an inch closer to him on the bench. "I should have come for you sooner."

She laughed bitterly. "I've caused you such trouble, Phil."

He was silent for a moment, considering her words. There had been a time when he would have considered his own behavior quite rash, and might even have agreed with her. In the wake of New York, however, his patience for secrecy and SHIELD's near Byzantine bureaucracy had waned. He had nearly broken away when Skye had been shot, and had she died he might very well have done so. He had been on the verge of leaving for quite some time now, and only loyalty to his team had kept him in place.

"I never could have lived with myself if I hadn't come for you," he said honestly, and she looked away, a small tear tracing down her cheek. "I would have done the same for anyone on our team."

It was true, but he certainly wouldn't be sitting on this bench if he had extracted anyone else.

She seemed to catch the drift of his thoughts. "You also would have loaned Ward your jacket, I'm sure," she said teasingly, brushing away another tear.

"No," he replied firmly, and she laughed again, but now her laughter was brighter. "He'd only stretch it."

Only three inches had separated them, and now there was less than one. "Tell me if I overstep my bounds," she murmured, resting her head against his shoulder. "If I take my character too far."

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, careful to avoid her injury, and pulled her closer. He enjoyed the contact far more than he ought. "Only if you promise to do the same."

It was an hour before the rain let up, but Phil found it to be the happiest hour he had experienced in quite some time.

* * *

Jemma napped after their return from the gardens, waking shortly before dinner. She felt anxious and out of breath, haunted by white corridors and blood-spattered scalpels. She understood, now, Lady Macbeth's classic line, and the urge to scrub her hands was nearly overwhelming.

She knew that she should tell Phil about the nurse, should tell him everything she remembered about her time away, if only for the sake of telling someone. What formality had remained to their relationship had died in the gardens, and the easing of distance between them made her feel surprisingly secure. His look of concern had been replaced with something warmer, and she was reluctant to change that.

She didn't want for him to look at her and see the blood on her hands. The concern had been bad enough; she didn't think she could stand to see his expression turn guarded. It was a ridiculous fear, in its own way- he had killed, as had most of the people in his acquaintance, and yet she hesitated.

As an unspoken apology for her own lack of courage, she forced herself to eat the meal he ordered, feeling absurdly pleased when he smiled at her. She would take these small victories when she could, and cherish them.

Natasha and Clint returned late that evening, neither commenting on the fact that she had curled up next to Phil on the couch, ostensibly reading _Mansfield_ _Park_.

"Tomorrow, our grand adventure begins," Clint said, dropping into one of the chairs. "I wanted to play 'I'm on a Boat' to mark the occasion, but Nat said she would disembowel me."

Natasha declined to comment.

"I'm looking forward to strolling leisurely with you along the decks, and making the opposing team in shuffleboard cry," he told her earnestly. "My own sweet wife."

Natasha muttered something vulgar in Russian, swatting him on the head as she stalked into her bedroom.

Jemma watched her go, and turned back to Clint. "She'd be very bored without you," she said thoughtfully, marking her place in the book with one finger.

"It's the only reason he's still alive," Phil agreed, his arm brushing lightly against hers. "Though he occasionally pushes his luck."

"Have to keep her guessing," Clint said blithely, leaning back in his chair. "Enjoy your trip to the gardens?"

Jemma cast him a startled glance. "You followed us?"

"No," he replied. "I made a bet with Nat." He frowned. "She just won fifty bucks."

"You should know better than to place bets with Natasha," Phil said dryly. "It's only the hundredth time that it's turned out badly for you."

"I can't help it." Clint glanced at the shut door. "She makes them so much fun."

* * *

The ship left the next afternoon, cutting swiftly through the Meeting of the Waters and setting course for Iquitos via the Solimoes River. Phil lingered on deck, enjoying the sight of Jemma at the rail, where she smiled in delight at the encroaching rainforest on the riverbanks.

"It's amazing," she said excitedly, giddiness lending a glow to her thin face. "I'm so glad we're traveling by boat." She turned away from the railing and grinned at him, the breeze tugging at her loose hair. "Will you explore the rest with me?"

He could hardly deny her, especially when she tucked her arm through his and pressed close to his side. They made a leisurely tour of the two decks open to passengers. It was not the typical floating city that made up the bulk of modern cruise ships, for which he was glad. This ship was in the older style, and appeared to cater to travelers who preferred rest and relaxation to constant distractions. The view more than made up for the lack of live entertainment and swimming pools.

They ended the tour at their cabin, which proved to be small, though comfortable. Phil caught the quick glance Jemma shot at the bed. It would have been a cozy fit for two people who were accustomed to sleeping together, and in their current situation would most likely be a bridge too far for Jemma.

The floor, he decided, would do well enough for him.

She sat on one of the small chairs near the window, tidying her tousled hair while he busied himself with the required sweep. Once he was satisfied that the room was clear, he joined her. The joy she had felt on the decks had obviously passed: her hands were clenched in her lap, and her mouth set in a thin line.

He sat in the other chair, laying a single finger on her wrist to catch her attention. It seemed to startle her; she had been deeper in thought than he had imagined.

"Anything I can do?"

She opened her mouth to reply, and then apparently thought better of it. "No," she finally said after a moment. "Just- memory." She met his gaze and smiled sheepishly. "I can't seem to hold onto happiness anymore."

He had felt the same, after he learned the truth about Tahiti. Contentment or joy would flare into being, only to be dashed seconds later. "It gets better," he promised her. "Time might not heal all, but it brings its own peace."

"Very poetic." She relaxed slightly, but he had the feeling it was an act. She was trying to please him, because that was the kind of person she was. Jemma's gaze turned to the window. "It really is very beautiful."

And from a distance, it was. The rainforest waited, green and dense, its dangers hidden behind the screen of trees and flora. It was its own kind of trap for the unwary.

* * *

Dinner was excellent, and all in all Jemma was pleased with how she had handled what was, in some ways, the debut of their new personas. They had all played their new roles to a certain extent in public, but being seated at a table in the middle of the restaurant made Jemma feel almost as if she were on a stage.

Phil touched her, often, as a devoted husband might. Mostly it was the stroking of his fingers against her hand and wrist, though once he kissed her fingertips in a move that made her blush despite herself. Across from them Natasha and Clint exchanged besotted smiles, a sight so bizarre that Jemma nearly lost her composure.

"Ignore them," Phil murmured in her ear, making her feel a little short of breath. "They're being nauseating on purpose."

Across the table, Natasha's smile began to look suspiciously like a smirk.

Back in their cabin, Jemma quickly realized that she had two problems. The first was that Natasha, at some point, had confiscated the comfortable, baggy pajamas Jemma had grown accustomed to, leaving her with sleeker variants of the same items. They were hardly scandalous- and they were, mercifully, lacking in animal imagery- but she would have preferred the shrouding bulk of her old sweatshirts.

The second was that Phil did seem intent on sleeping on the floor, an idea she disapproved of for multiple reasons.

"You'll hurt your back," she said sternly, glaring at him over the edge of the bed.

He stared at her impassively from his spot on the floor. "I think I can manage for a few days."

She considered him for a moment, and then decided to take Natasha's advice. Grabbing one of the pillows, she lay down next to him, her arms crossed defiantly across her chest. "Fine. So can I."

It appeared that he hadn't expected such a move from her. "What if I make it an order?"

She laughed. "An order? You don't have agency hierarchy backing you up anymore. Any orders I follow are the ones I choose to accept." She shifted slightly, her shoulder already aching.

He muttered something in a language that sounded Scandinavian. Swedish, perhaps. "Very well," he said with a slight smile, standing and offering her his hand. "I can hardly let a lady sleep on the floor."

She smiled in return, pleased with her success. "Thank you."

So pleased was she that she hardly felt any nervousness at all when they were both tucked under the covers in the dark, though only a few inches separated them.

She dreamed. The white halls were smeared with blood, and they were empty and endless.

* * *

Phil had half-expected to wake up to find Jemma curled against him, so it was a bit of a shock when he woke to find that he had inadvertently gravitated to her instead. His head was tucked against her side, an arm slung around her waist. The light scent of jasmine clung to her clothes.

He lingered for a moment as the early dawn light began to creep around the curtains, listening to the quiet sound of her breathing. Alive, and as well as could be expected, given the circumstances.

Reluctantly he pulled away and adjusted the covers around her. She stirred briefly, sighing as he slipped out of the bed.

She woke about an hour later, rolling onto her side and blinking owlishly at him. "Did I sleep for too long?"

"Hardly," he replied, shutting his book. "You could probably do with a few more hours."

She seemed tempted by the idea.

"Another hour," he coaxed, leaning forward in his seat. "I'll have tea waiting for you when you wake up."

She nodded, pulling his abandoned pillow against her chest as she fell into a doze.

He made a quiet call to the kitchens and settled in with his book, though he found his attention kept drifting back to Jemma. Persistent beams of light made their way around the edges of the curtains, pooling on the bed where she slept. Amidst the coverlet and sheets she looked fragile, though he knew she was anything but.

He tore his gaze away from the play of light on her face. He was a maudlin old fool, and he would most likely pay for it.


	7. Triticum aestivum

_Et puis regarde! Tu-vois, là-bas, les champs de blé? Je ne mange pas de pain. Le blé pour moi est inutile. Les champs de blé ne me rappellent rien. Et ça, c'est triste! Mais tu as des cheveux couleur d'or. Alors ce sera merveilleux quand tu m'auras apprivoisé! Le blé, qui est doré, me fera souvenir de toi. Et j'aimerai le bruit du vent dans le blé…_

_But look! __Do you see, there, the fields of wheat? I do not eat bread. Wheat is useless to me. The fields of grain remind me of nothing, and how sad that is. But you, you have hair the color of gold. How marvellous it would be if you were to tame me! The wheat, which is also the color of gold, would become for me a reminder of you. And I would love the sound of the wind amidst the grain…_  
- _Le Petit Prince_, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Their journey up the river was a quiet one. Clint and Natasha played the part of newlyweds to annoying perfection, and Jemma spent most of her time in the shade on the lower deck, watching the rainforest slide slowly by. Phil stayed with her, and he was surprised the first time she tugged him down onto her deck chair. She curled up next to him without saying a word, and he wondered if, once again, she was burying herself too deeply in her invented backstory.

He was hesitant to mention it to her in private, worried that if this was some kind of coping mechanism he would disrupt it when she needed it most. In any case, he was selfishly glad for the time they spent together, both their hours on deck and in the quiet of the night.

As Rosemary she was affectionate and tactile. She nestled against him, quiet and warm, occasionally pointing out some feature of the passing scenery. She smiled easily at everyone who passed, the picture of contentment, and though her appetite was obviously still lacking she hid it well in public.

In private, the smiles were fewer, and she rarely touched anyone. Despite that, she was apparently unbothered by how little personal space the cabin afforded.

She still had nightmares, he could tell, but they were quiet ones that left her pressed against the wall, buried trembling beneath the sheets. After the first night he had been reluctant to trespass on her personal space again, had been reluctant to even allow himself to sleep deeply for fear of doing so inadvertently.

The night before they arrived in Iquitos this unspoken detente came to an end when something sent her rocketing awake in a panic. Pushing frantically against the wall, she collided with him, nearly sending them both onto the floor.

She stilled against him, panting slightly. "The walls were closing in," she whispered, her voice tinged with embarrassment. "My apologies." She moved back, untangling the sheets that had landed in a heap at the foot of the bed. She settled again a few inches away. "Do you still have nightmares?" she asked after a moment, turning slightly so that she faced him.

"Often." Nearly every night, though the content had shifted. In his dreams Jemma now huddled amidst the needles and machinery and bloodied sands of Tahiti, hiding in corners like a wraith.

One hand brushed against his arm. "Does anything help?"

No. "Time," he replied instead, hoping that for her that would be the case.

Her hand curved gently over his bicep. "I did something very bad, Phil," she admitted so softly that he barely heard her. "Back there."

"Tell me."

She hesitated briefly. "There was a nurse… I was scared," she said, panic creeping into her voice. "And I had a scalpel."

He could envision the scene easily enough: Jemma, pushed to a breaking point, unthinkingly grabbing the closest weapon at hand. She would know where to strike to cause the most damage, wouldn't even have to consider it. Most likely the deed had been done before she even realized her own intentions.

"They pushed you too far," he said firmly. "You were frightened, and hurt, and most likely drugged. You were drugged?" Not that it would have mattered if she wasn't.

"Yes," she admitted quietly. "I think she might be dead."

A quick slice to an artery, he guessed. Clean and efficient and very, very easy to accomplish. "Not necessarily," he replied, having had first-hand experience with SHIELD's advances in medicine. In this case, though, he thought death was quite likely, but refrained from mentioning it.

"Then they hurt me," she continued, sounding shaken. "I deserved it."

He disagreed on that particular point, quite vehemently, though he kept his tone quiet and gentle. "You didn't deserve any of it."

Her hand trembled on his arm. "You won't leave me?" she asked desperately. He could hear how long she had been living with that particular fear, how the thought of abandonment had taken root in her mind, and it stung.

In response, he gathered her into his arms, gratified when she snuggled closer without complaint, her head resting over his heart. She was shaking still, and she clenched his shirt tightly in one hand. "I'm not going anywhere," he said, stroking a hand over her hair. "We're going to have a good life in Lima," he promised. "You'll find something amazing to study, and we'll learn Spanish and explore the city. I hear Lima has a great food scene."

She considered this as he continued to stroke her hair, her breathing beginning to calm as her trembling subsided. "I'd like to have a little garden," she murmured finally, and he found the idea very appealing. Jemma, smiling in the sunlight, coaxing life out of the earth. "There's been some fascinating research recently about the properties of sundews…"

He laughed quietly, his mental image of said garden suddenly shifting to include a variety of carnivorous plants. "You'll also have pitcher plants and Venus fly-traps amidst the marigolds and roses, I assume?"

"I'm very tempted."

"Then you'll have them." They would settle somewhere in the outskirts of the city, somewhere he could give her a courtyard and as much green as she wished. Doubtless Nat and Clint would pop in and out of their lives, disappearing for months at a time only to reappear at the breakfast table some morning as if they had never left.

He would do his best to make her happy, and he knew, there in the dark, that his own personal gravity had shifted, and he was glad of it.

* * *

They passed through border control quickly and easily, the agent barely even glancing at their passports before authorizing entry. Their ease of passage, combined with her midnight confession, caused Jemma to feel a kind of giddy relief that was bolstered by the way Phil looked at her. His warmth hadn't diminished; if anything, it had increased.

Their flight to Lima would leave early the next morning. They settled in for a quiet night at their hotel, the lights of the Plaza de Armas gleaming in the rain outside their windows. No comment was made when Jemma placed her luggage in the same room as Phil's, for which she was glad. Initially his closeness had only been a comfort, a reminder of how reassuring physical contact could be with someone she trusted, someone who asked for nothing in return. As the days had gone by, comfort had begun to shift into something else entirely. She had new context for him now, thanks to their close proximity and unusual circumstances. On the Bus he had been very much Phil Coulson the agent, and she had considered him to be trustworthy and kind, if a bit distant. Now she was learning about Phil Coulson the man: someone haunted and weary, who nonetheless gave of himself generously. He treated her with genuine tenderness and affection, and she found herself wanting to reciprocate.

She was, she realized, falling for him, and it no longer had anything to do with their cover story. It was Jemma, and not Rosemary, who wanted to be held in the night, who envisioned a garden filled with flowers and genus drosera. She wanted the life Phil had described, a life of exploration and roses and research, with quiet rainy days and long nights.

Admittedly, Phil hadn't said anything about the long nights, but Jemma was bound and determined to have them eventually. She wasn't ready for them now, and might not be for quite a while, but her time away had taught her a very important lesson about going after the things she wanted._Carpe diem_ had never been so bitter a proverb as it had in that cell below ground, not when she could look back at the slew of wasted chances at her leisure.

"Are you alright?" he asked her that evening, and she realized that she had been hesitating beside the bed, staring at it with a frown. "If last night made you uncomfortable, I can sleep on the couch."

The night before had been the best sleep she'd had in months- after he calmed her down, of course. The sound of his heartbeat under her ear and the feel of his arms around her had been immensely comforting. She wanted to curl up to him again and let his warmth and proximity lull her to sleep.

It really was very confusing, wanting him to touch her when she could barely stand to let anyone else. Even brushing past Clint put her on edge, and she felt perfectly safe with him otherwise.

She smiled quickly, and climbed into bed. "No, I'm fine," she said as reassuringly as she could, forcing herself to keep her distance. "Please stay."

_Carpe diem_ was all well and good, but putting it into practice was going to be a problem.

* * *

Lima bustled under blue skies, vibrant and alive, a veritable good omen of a city.

"Where do you plan on staying?" Natasha asked him as they strolled through the Park of the Exposition. Clint had drawn Jemma ahead to examine the exterior of the Byzantine Pavilion even as Natasha had casually taken Phil's arm and slowed their steps. A very neat divide and conquer. "Downtown, I suppose, near the nightlife?"

He had already pinpointed the exact district, and it lay a good distance from the inner city. "Cieneguilla," he replied. "To the east."

It was one of the few districts which had not been completely overtaken by urban growth. There were still wild, green spaces in those hills, lifted above the city proper.

Natasha shot him a knowing glance. "How very interesting," she said dryly. "A nice little house, then? Set back in the valley, away from neighbors. Very idyllic."

He looked ahead to Jemma as she disappeared around a corner of the building. Her carefree act was wearing at the edges. "I'm not going to push her into something she doesn't want or isn't ready for, Nat."

"What she wants and what she is or isn't ready for is her decision," she responded calmly. "And when she makes her decision, you'll respect it." She wasn't giving an ultimatum, but offering a simple fact. "We're going to stay with you," she continued. "It will be safer that way, and Clint likes Peru."

"Won't you get bored?"

She smiled slightly. "How could I be bored? Leading SHIELD astray will be the most fun I've had in years." She turned an earnest gaze on him. "We just want you to be happy, Phil," she said. "We'll keep you safe."

He was unsure how he had inspired such loyalty in Natasha, but it radiated from her in that moment, the desire to protect, to conceal. "Nat-"

She interrupted him with a shake of her head. "It's our gift to you," she stated firmly, striding ahead to catch up with Jemma and Clint before he could reply. He stared after her for a moment, speechless.

Jemma smiled as he rejoined them, reaching out to take his hand. "Hungry?" she asked, edging closer to him. She seemed shy, suddenly, less Rosemary and more Jemma.

He kissed the hand he held, enjoying her blush. "Yes."

* * *

It took time to find the right place to live. Phil had certain specifications, apparently, and Jemma kept herself apart from the deliberations. For one, she knew next to nothing about choosing a location that would be easily defensible. For another, they were in this situation solely because of her. She would live in a shack if it pleased them, and she would be grateful for it.

She occupied herself by keeping quiet and out of the way, allowing them to pull her along to whatever restaurant or sight had caught their fancy. It was not all play: they had to look like tourists if they were to pass as tourists, after all, and it did give her a chance to touch Phil with impunity. She tried not to touch him in private, determined to accord him the same respect he gave to her, but it was proving to be more difficult as the days went by.

Natasha cornered her in the hall one night on the way back from dinner, waving Clint and Phil ahead when they would have slowed. "You're well?" she asked.

Jemma gave her a puzzled look. "Quite well, thank you."

Something in Natasha's expression told Jemma that the other woman understood her far better than she had thought. "It takes time to heal," Natasha said in a very straightforward manner. "More time than we'd like. It can be nice to know that someone is beside you every step of the way."

Jemma blushed. "He's always been kind," she said, fiddling with her rings nervously.

"True." Natasha resumed her sedate stroll toward their door. "He's a caretaker."

Jemma caught up with her, a slight frown on her face. "Pardon?"

Natasha shrugged. "It's why he was such a good agent. Phil Coulson cares for people, and his natural urge is to take care of them. Of course, the tragedy of caretakers is they never take care of themselves. 'Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?'" she quoted. "Or in this case, 'who takes care of the caretakers?'" Natasha paused, turning a serious gaze on her. "It's not wrong to go after happiness, Jemma."

Jemma felt a sudden flare of panic and embarrassment. Had she been so obvious?

"No," Natasha said, understanding her unasked question. "But I have a good read on you, and you have good taste. If I hadn't already dedicated my life to making Clint miserable, I might well try for Phil." She smiled suddenly, small and secretive. "But then, I am very bad at taking care of people, so it is probably for the best that Clint keeps me occupied."

She pulled Jemma after her into the suite, barely giving her time to regain her composure.

Who takes care of the caretakers? Jemma found herself thinking that night in the dark, lying only inches away from him, and a part of her that had been long asleep seemed to wake. _Me_.

* * *

Natasha found the house in the Lurin River Valley a week later, and secured it before even mentioning its existence to anyone else. Cool, shaded rooms surrounded an inner courtyard in which neglected cattleya and oncidium grew. The valley was before and the jungle behind, and there were no neighbors for miles.

"It's perfect," Natasha said in a satisfied tone as she took them on a tour of their new home. "The kitchen was recently updated, and the bathrooms are all modern." She pulled open the shutters in the large room which served as a common living area. "And we have a complete view of the valley below. Anyone coming from that direction would be spotted long before they arrived."

Jemma leaned out one of the windows, taking in the sweeping vista below them, and it was as if she experienced the sudden cessation of vertigo. The ground was solid again beneath her feet, and the mental dizziness diminished. There was a life to be had here within these stone walls, if she cared to work for it.

She pulled Natasha into a quick, sudden embrace before moving out the door into the courtyard, hiding her smile at the startled expression on the other woman's face.

Phil joined her outside as she walked the perimeter of the yard, noting where the sunlight would fall throughout the course of the day and trying to determine which spots would receive the most shade. "I have a lot of research to do," she said happily, examining the vine that crept up the columns of the small portico, wondering if it would flower or just prove to be an invading pest. "I'm not sure which plants will grow best in this climate."

He looked pleased by her enthusiasm. "We'd better buy a hat for you," he said, touching her face lightly. "You'll burn, otherwise, spending so much time in the sun."

She smiled, and moved away to pull open the door to one of the bedrooms. It was empty but for a mahogany bed frame, which boasted a coating of dust but was otherwise in excellent condition. Jemma could almost envision how it would look once dusted and polished, made up with soft sheets and blankets. A bed like that could be a sanctuary.

Something about the house made her feel brave. Perhaps it was the solid stone of the walls, or the vast spread of the valley below, or perhaps it was the neglected garden in the courtyard. She had the knowledge and the skill to restore the flowers to what they had once been. With equal care, she could restore herself into something better.

She could be courageous, she decided, for the orchids and the cattleya, and for herself. She could have her long nights here in this bed, the happy ones she wanted that nightmares wouldn't be able to touch.

"Phil," she began hesitantly, trailing her fingertips through the dust covering the foot-board. "I like this room very much."

He was watching her from his spot near the window, and she liked the sight of him there. "Then it's yours," he said simply, his stance open and unguarded.

"I was more hoping that it could be ours," she clarified, walking toward him, hoping that she hadn't completely misread him. She stopped a foot away, struck by his expression. "And I'm not asking as Rosemary."

His hands landed lightly on her waist, a benediction, and she eased closer. "This is Jemma asking Phil?" he asked, and by the soft look in his eyes Jemma wondered if he was seeing beyond this moment, his thoughts skipping ahead to rumpled sheets and starlit nights.

"Very much so," she said, suddenly breathless. "I think Jemma is going to love Phil much more than Rosemary could ever love Jonathan."

He pulled her gently against him, offering her every opportunity to break away if she should choose to do so. "That's good," he replied, sounding a bit shaken. "I'd much rather have Jemma."

"You'd rather listen to me ramble about my research? Rosemary would probably be much quieter. I think she knits."

He looked, she thought, as if he couldn't quite believe his good fortune, and she delighted in it. "I want to hear everything about your research, because I love how happy it makes you. Besides," he added, suddenly amused, "Natasha promised to take care of the knitting."

She gave him a quizzical look. "Natasha? Knitting?"

"You'll have to ask her about that." He raised a hand to cup her cheek. "Pity poor Clint."

She kissed him then, soft and light, hands against the sides of his face. She would cultivate happiness here, in the sun-dappled shade of the garden and the soft sheets of their bed, and God help anyone who tried to take it from her.

_Notes: Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Who will guard the guards themselves? (Juvenal)_


	8. Delphinium elatum and lilium candidum

_There has fallen a splendid tear_  
_From the passion-flower at the gate._  
_She is coming, my dove, my dear;_  
_She is coming, my life, my fate;_  
_The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"_  
_And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"_  
_The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"_  
_And the lily whispers, "I wait."_  
-"Maud, A Monodrama," Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Phil was not one to believe much in fate- he had met gods, after all, and Thor and Loki had been as far from omniscient and omnipresent as Phil himself was- but the moment he stepped over the threshold of that house he had known that they were always meant to find their way there. This patch of land would be important to him, somehow, someday.

He had not expected that day to come quite so soon, and yet here he was, kissing Jemma Simmons in a bedroom that she wanted to share with him indefinitely. Of all the strange turns his life had taken in the past few years, this one was definitely his favorite.

She pulled back to look at him, her expression one of shy pleasure. "It's a lovely house," she said, dropping her hands to his shoulders. "Natasha did a very good job."

He brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face, and she leaned slightly into his hand. "Yes, she did," he agreed, enjoying the feel of her skin against his fingers. He was not entirely sure that this wasn't about to spiral into one of his nightmares. He leaned forward and brushed his lips across hers again, capturing the moment in his mind: the patch of sunlight from the window warming his back, the soft hitch in her breathing, the way she felt against him.

The soft, almost dreamy look she bore when they separated was the one he wanted to see on her face for the rest of his life.

She pulled gently out of his embrace and took his hand. "Have you seen the kitchen?" she asked, and her smile was just a little bit wicked. "I think Natasha is going to want to collect on your debt, now."

He owed Natasha more than food, at this point. For finding this house, he might very well be in debt to her for life.

The rest of the house was secondary to Jemma's reaction to it. She was openly, if quietly, pleased, and even covered in dust the rooms took on new life around her. He could almost see her reading in the living room, or drinking tea at a table in the kitchen. It was clear that Natasha had undertaken her search with an eye toward more than just strategic defense. The graceful lines of the rooms were soothing; the general air peaceful. It felt like the kind of home that happy families had spent many years in.

"Pleased?" Clint asked him, appearing suddenly around the corner of the house. Jemma had wandered ahead with Natasha, and they were discussing something, staring off in the direction of the jungle. "Nat dragged me into nearly every available house in the district, and a few that weren't." He grinned. "I'm not sure what she would have done if she had decided that she wanted one of those houses."

Phil didn't particularly want to know, either. "I don't think you could have found anything better." He cast a glance at Clint, who stood casually, hands in his pockets. "Are you sure you want to stay?"

"This is the closest thing we'll probably ever get to retirement," Clint replied wryly. "Warm days, a jungle to explore, intel to gather and an international agency to deceive? Sounds like fun."

For all of his good cheer, Phil suspected that Clint was still as deeply affected by the events of New York as he was. They had not spoken of New York, but Phil had kept himself informed on the well-being of all the Avengers during his time on the Bus, reading his way through all the files, taking into consideration every impersonal line printed starkly in black and white. He had even checked on Ms. Potts and Jane Foster's small, eclectic group, wondering if anyone had ever bothered to give Ms. Lewis her ipod back.

He was very glad that Natasha and Clint had decided to stay with them, and not just because they were useful to have around. The three of them had worked together for so long that he considered them to be his in a way that the other Avengers were not. He had never said so aloud, but they were essentially his family.

"Are you mad at her for matchmaking?" Clint asked suddenly as the women turned to walk back to the house. Jemma smiled when she saw them, her stride visibly lengthening.

"No," Phil responded. "How could I be?"

"Nat manipulates because she cares." Clint smiled. "I even made a playlist for her in that general theme."

"Where exactly did this obsession come from?" Phil asked in idle interest. He had been aiming for a more exasperated tone, but he found that in the wake of Jemma metaphorically knocking his feet out from under him he just couldn't be bothered.

"SHIELD employs some weird therapists," Clint said with a shake of his head, and left it at that.

Jemma's mood continued to lighten throughout the day, until she seemed very much like the woman he had known a year ago. Conversely, his own mood worsened as his conscience wore away at him. The much more honorable part of him- the part that had existed before New York, and had miraculously survived it- was uneasy with the latest developments. If he was taking advantage of Jemma while she was in an emotionally compromised state, even with something as innocent as a gentle kiss, then he was truly not the man he had once been.

A remnant of that dreamy expression was on her face when she came to bed that evening, and it filled him with equal measures of guilt and longing. She settled a few inches away from him, suddenly looking shy. "Will it disturb your sleep if I'm close?" she asked. "You haven't been sleeping very well."

He resisted the urge to pull her against him; wouldn't even allow himself to reach out and touch her hair. "Does it help you?"

She gazed at him pensively. Before, when she had been Simmons (or Fitzsimmons, rather), she had spent so much of her time buried in her research that he had never considered how unnerving it might be to have her considerable intellect directed solely at him. "You're doubtful," she murmured suddenly. "You don't quite believe that I want you."

It was certainly what he feared. He didn't consider her damaged in the slightest- he was the damaged one in this duo, without a doubt- but she had been through an ordeal, and though it was a disservice to her he worried she was confusing a need for comfort with love. This was very much in conflict with the part of him that had existed in disbelieving joy since her confession that morning, the part that- if he was honest with himself- wanted her in every way possible.

She didn't look upset, merely thoughtful. "What could I do to convince you?" she asked, propping herself up on one elbow. "I don't know what to tell you, and I-"

She broke off, beginning to look distraught, and he hated himself for it. "You don't have anything to prove to me," he told her, closing the distance between them and sliding an arm around her waist. "I overthink everything, Jemma. SHIELD paid me to."

"I think they paid you for a bit more than that," she replied. "I'm not a child, Phil. I'll love you if I please, and you are free to tell me no if you want. And being close to you does help."

She placed her hand on his cheek. "Your health is important to me, too," she murmured, her expression shifting from distress to concern. "You need to sleep."

He drew her down to him, and she laid her head on his shoulder. "I sleep better with you," he murmured into her hair.

It wasn't a lie, not really. He still dreamed- he would always have his nightmares, most likely, and they were actually worse now that Jemma had taken up permanent residence in his dreamscape- but having her so close dulled the edges.

"I need you to trust me when I tell you what I want," she said softly. "I know my own boundaries, Phil, and I'm perfectly capable of expressing them to you. I need you to tell me what you want, as well."

She was right, of course. It would be one thing if he truly didn't want her, and could tell her so in all honesty. She wouldn't impose herself on him if that were the case. But he did want her, and to deny her the right to make her own decisions in this matter made him no better than those who had imprisoned her. "I want you," he stated plainly. "I'm not used to getting what I want, Jemma."

She snuggled closer, placing one arm across his chest. "I'm afraid you're going to have to get used to it."

"I need you to be clear about your boundaries. I won't have you flinching away from me because I make the wrong move." He couldn't stand the thought that he might inadvertently frighten her, not when she placed herself so trustingly in his hands. He could appease his own conscience in this way, by respecting whatever boundaries she might draw.

"I like this," she said soothingly. "I'm not ready for anything much more intimate yet, but I very much want you to hold me."

"An order I'm happy to follow."

She glanced up at him. "Don't take this as a precedent for me dictating everything in our relationship, Phil. Someday I'm going to want to be surprised again."

"Someday is not today," he pointed out.

"No, it isn't," she agreed. "But you won't scare me off by being more assertive. I'm not fragile."

It would be a delicate line to walk, trying to find the right balance between the gentleness he wished to accord her and the strength she desired. "Well, when you're ready to be surprised, let me know. I can be very surprising."

She grinned. "I hope so."

* * *

Remembering Manaus, Jemma wisely gave Natasha free rein when it came to furnishing the house. When at all possible, she absented herself from the process entirely, preferring to visit the local nurseries and research the indigenous plants. Natasha seemed inclined to let her get away with it, for the most part, and Jemma was fairly certain it was because Natasha was pleased by the understanding Jemma and Phil had come to, however tenuous it might be.

This worked well enough until Natasha was buying bed linens, at which point she overruled Jemma's objections and dragged her downtown for a day of shopping.

"Count your blessings," Natasha told her with a small smile. "At least this time I won't make you strip down to your underwear."

She had a point. "Aren't sheets just, well, sheets?" asked Jemma, who had been very contentedly cuddled up to Phil on the couch before Natasha had declared her plans for the day.

"They're just sheets until you're rolling around in them with Phil, at which point you'll be more appreciative of high thread counts and fiber content," Natasha replied dryly, smirking slightly when Jemma blushed. "That is, assuming you can think of anything at all."

Jemma silently cursed her fair skin, which so clearly broadcast every emotion she had. "How interesting," she said weakly, feeling obligated to say something and yet a bit too overwhelmed to come up with a good response.

"I imagine it will be interesting," Natasha agreed. "He holds you like spun glass now, but-"

She broke off, noting the flustered look on Jemma's face. "You're right. Too much, too soon." She stroked the fabric of the sheets in front of her, and handed them over to Jemma. "What do you think?"

It was difficult for Jemma to give her an objective opinion, not when she was suddenly wondering how they would feel under her bare back. She had been truthful when she had told Phil that she wasn't ready for anything too intimate, and it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her. Her body had been treated with such casual disregard for so long that her boundaries had shrunk, leaving her unaccustomed to physical contact. Being held and kissed was a stretch, but one she was glad to make. This seemed to suit his own hesitancy in the matter.

That didn't mean that she hadn't considered what sex with Phil would be like. Jemma found the juxtaposition between the gentle way he touched her and his physical strength intriguing. She found herself watching his hands throughout the day, admiring their dexterity and wondering how they would feel wrapped around her hips. She wouldn't have to worry about him finding her scars off-putting, not with his own being what they were, and she certainly didn't care about his scars.

Natasha bought the sheets and what seemed to be an excessive number of towels, and with the irresistible combination of beauty, charm, and money wheedled the shop employees into having them delivered to the hotel.

Three shops and innumerable blankets and pillows later, they stopped for lunch at a quiet restaurant on a small side street. Natasha sipped her wine, regarding Jemma thoughtfully. "I'd like to teach you self-defense."

"Really?" To her surprise, Jemma found the idea appealing. "I'm not very coordinated." It was one thing to be delicate and graceful with sensitive lab equipment, and quite another to turn a violent situation to her advantage.

"You've never needed to learn how," Natasha replied calmly. "But you have the capability to do so. I saw the security footage from the Hub."

Jemma refrained from groaning. Poor Agent Sitwell.

"And for you, extensive hand-to-hand combat training isn't really needed," Natasha continued. "You need to know how to break someone's hold. From there the best option is to run away very quickly."

It would be very nice to have an option other than a quick surrender. Jemma wasn't much of an athlete, but she could run, and she could hide, and above all she could follow orders scrupulously. Being able to take care of herself, even to a limited extent, would make her less of a burden if the worst occurred.

"I would be very pleased to accept you as a teacher," Jemma said decisively, knowing that she was likely dooming herself to days of exhaustion and aching muscles, and Natasha smiled.

"Excellent."

* * *

Natasha finally declared herself satisfied with the house a week later. Wandering through the now clean and furnished rooms did not, as Jemma expected, give her any sense of peace. Instead, it brought quite forcefully to mind that there was a conversation she had been avoiding, and the topic was not one she wished to discuss within these walls.

And so, that evening at the hotel she steeled herself to bring to light the last of her secrets, though in comparison to the one she had already shared the story of her remaining time away almost seemed dull.

"I want to tell you what I remember," she told Phil, taking a seat on the bed and pleating the sheets between her fingers. She found herself avoiding his gaze. "Which isn't much, but I don't want to talk about it in the house." _In that bed_, she meant. She'd rather make new memories there, and not rehash the old ones.

He sat next to her, close enough so that she could lean in if she chose to do so. "I'm listening."

She hesitated. "Could we- could we turn off the lights?" she asked. "It helped, before."

He switched off the lights without a single word of protest, and when he came back to the bed she settled herself against his side. "I'm not quite sure where to start," she began. "Because the beginning- I had no clue where things were going. They were all so-"

She paused, feeling the prick of tears. "Nice," she concluded. "They were nice, and they took care to make the tests comfortable. It was all quite routine."

There was a lump in her throat, and she couldn't quite bring herself to continue. Blood tests, x-rays, a general physical. A few discussions with a psychologist. Very standard for SHIELD. Nothing to indicate how bad things would become.

He picked up on her discomfort. "The day after you left, Skye started a fire in the kitchen."

She gasped out a startled laugh. "What?"

"Apparently," he said, his voice laden with a kind of fond exasperation that only Clint and Skye seemed to inspire, "she wanted to make a cake."

"And set fire to the kitchen instead?"

"She claimed that she was distracted by a sudden need to kick Ward's ass at a game of Battleship."

Jemma considered this silently for a moment. "Did she win?"

"No."

Jemma found herself giggling, and when the laughter passed felt sufficiently fortified to continue. "I'm still not sure where things went wrong; if they had planned it, or if something showed up in my lab work. I-"

She could feel herself slipping into a panic, and paused to take in a few deep breaths. The feel of him against her helped, anchoring her to the present moment. She wasn't in the cell, she wasn't in an examining room. She was with Phil Coulson, who would stand between her and anything that might come through the door. "It was on the third day," she continued. "I had dinner with a few of the researchers. We were laughing about something, and I was thinking that I would call Fitz later to check on the team, and then I blacked out. I woke up in a hospital room." She gave a short, embarrassed laugh. "The door was locked. Silly me, I thought it was an accident."

"When did you know it wasn't?"

"When the same researchers came in. They were all armed," she replied, remembering the moment very clearly. There had been a complete absence of the congenial atmosphere that had pervaded the meal. They had looked at her like she was a curiosity, and a dangerous one. "They were very cautious in the early days. It took them a few weeks to realize that I was unlikely to be a threat to them."

That was putting the situation politely. Their guard had only begun to drop when they thought they had broken her. The drugs they gave her started the process, and the compassionless way they handled her furthered the damage. It was despair that finally brought her to her knees, when all hope of mercy or rescue seemed out of reach.

"They told me that SHIELD had determined that I was too dangerous to be allowed back in the field. That I was going to be replaced by an agent more qualified."

She had no intention of telling him that they had informed her Agent Coulson had approved their decisions. She had believed it, then- not that he would approve of them imprisoning her, because there was nothing they could do to make her believe that, but that he would find a more qualified agent a better asset to the team than she had been.

He took her hand, his thumb stroking her wrist. "The team nearly fell apart when you didn't come back. You were the linchpin, you know."

"No, I didn't," she replied, momentarily distracted from her story.

"No one calms a room like you, Jemma," he said plainly, and lifted her hand to place a kiss in the curve of her palm. Perhaps she had made a mistake when she asked for the lights to be turned off. It was easier for her to speak in the dark, but without sight her sense of touch suddenly felt much more acute. The feel of his lips on her skin was like an electric shock.

"Did they tell you that I knew?" he asked her quietly.

"They said you approved of the new agent," she replied hesitantly. "They said- they said that you agreed I was a risk." She hurried to continue before he could respond. "I never thought that you knew what they had actually done, Phil. I would never believe that of you."

He was upset, she could tell. He had tensed against her, and his breathing pattern had become slightly irregular. He still held her hand as gently as ever, and that, more than anything, made her want to cry.

She forcefully pulled herself back into focus. "There were a lot of days where they didn't do any more than a standard blood draw, and on those days they didn't bother with sedating me. On other days I would wake up and find-"

She stuttered over the word, remembering the horror of those moments, when she would wake up to pain and another bandage and absolutely no idea what had happened during the missing time, knowing only that something had been taken from her. "I would just know," she finished weakly.

He had resumed stroking her hand, and she sensed that he did it as much to comfort himself as to comfort her. "They kept you awake that one day."

The day that they had all underestimated her. "I was hazy, but awake," she agreed, feeling a new surge of guilt over the fate of the nurse. "They did a few procedures like that. A spinal tap. Some brain scans."

He kissed her suddenly, as if to remind himself that she was still there, and what started out as light and gentle quickly became more heated when she pulled him to her willingly, allowing his weight to push her back into the pillows. It was surprisingly comforting, to feel him on top of her, and she briefly considered abandoning the conversation entirely and allowing events to come to their inevitable conclusion.

He seemed to come to his senses roughly around the time that she decided her idea was a very bad one, and she allowed him to pull back without a word of complaint.

"Don't apologize," she said before he could speak. "I liked it."

It was difficult to determine his mood in the dark, now that he was no longer close enough to touch. She reached over to the bedside table and switched on a lamp, casting the room into shadowy relief.

He had moved to the other end of the bed, and he gave her a crooked smile. "I feel like I _should_ apologize, Jemma."

He was so very honorable. It was going to be a problem.

"If you apologize every time we kiss we'll never get anywhere," she pointed out practically. "We're having a conversation that is very emotional for both of us. I found your impulse comforting."

He didn't respond, his expression thoughtful. She glanced down at her hands. "That's really the end of my story," she said finally, after a moment of silence. "You know the rest." She kept her head down, trying to figure out how best to salvage the situation.

The mattress shifted beside her, and he kissed the top of her head. "I trust you more than I trust myself," he admitted. "You might have to be the patient one."

Jemma met his gaze, and smiled. "I'm very patient," she said, and brushed his bottom lip with her thumb. "We'll just have to be patient with each other."

* * *

It rained the next day, a constant drizzle that should have been gloomy, but instead conspired to make the house even cozier. Phil found himself watching Jemma unpack when he should have been doing the same, tidily hanging her clothing in the closet and folding sweaters and shirts. Their conversation the night before seemed to lend a new gravity to her features. She had become braver than he was, in her willingness to be upfront about her desires, and she deserved someone who could be equally honest with her.

She caught him staring at one point, and dropped an intriguing handful of lace into a drawer. "Phil?"

"Just admiring how lovely you are." He made his way to her, remembering vividly the way she had walked toward him that first day in this room. The sun might not be shining, but with the soft patter of the rain overhead and the shutters drawn, he felt completely removed from the rest of the world. "Is it everything you hoped for?" he asked, his hands resting on her waist.

Jemma smiled. "More." She leaned in, curving her arms around his neck and lifting her lips to his. "Trust me," she whispered in that last moment before meeting.

When asked so sweetly, he couldn't help but do as she asked.


	9. Viola tricolor

_the one with violets in her lap._  
-Sappho (Carson)

Jemma Simmons was a marvel, and how he had never fully appreciated that on the Bus was a mystery to Phil. She had been off-limits then, of course, both by virtue of being one of his junior agents and by being intrinsically tied to Fitz, and Phil had been so caught up in the aftermath of his resurrection that he never bothered to look beyond the obvious. At the time she had merely appeared to be one half of a whole, albeit the prettier half.

Now he could hardly understand how he had looked past her for so many months. She was beautiful and blazingly intelligent, and the sight of her tucked in their bed at the end of the day made him feel breathless. She was honest about her limits and open with her affection, and above all trusted him completely. It proved to be an irresistible combination, and gradually wore away at his remaining uncertainties like water on stone.

She continued to be as perceptive as ever. "Have you ever considered you might be a _better_ man than you were?" she asked him one night as she stroked his hair. He was half-drowsing, head pillowed in her lap, cheek pressed against the brushed cotton of her pajamas. "Not a different man. Just a better one."

He considered the idea sleepily. "Certainly more spirit than letter of the law," he offered.

Her fingertips swept lightly across his brow. "The old Coulson would never have extracted me from SHIELD custody."

The old Coulson would have played by the rules and worked his way up the chain of command, and only after being personally denied by Fury would have considered alternative action. "Probably not," he admitted reluctantly, hoping she wasn't about to tip him out of her lap.

Her hands were no less gentle than they had been before his reply. "He probably would have followed orders and thrown me out of the Bus, too."

This was proving to be an exceptionally uncomfortable interrogation technique, but he was loathe to move. "I'd prefer not to answer that."

Surprisingly, she laughed. "I'm sorry," she said with a tender caress, and bent down enough to kiss the curve of his ear. "I lost my well-intentioned point somewhere in there. I just think that you gained more than you might have lost."

In a strange way, she was right.

The house seemed to work its peculiar magic on all of them in the early days. He had half-expected that Clint and Natasha would find themselves bored, despite their assurances otherwise, but they seemed more than happy to treat the grounds and the nearby jungle as their own personal playground. They mapped out numerous defensive strategies and escape routes, and it was not unusual to find Clint lounging on the roof or practicing at the archery range that appeared one morning behind the house. Slowly they amassed an extensive armoury, planting weapons of all kinds in odd corners and in small caches high in the trees.

Natasha occasionally disappeared for several days at a stretch, gathering intel and planting seeds of misinformation. "They seem to think we're in Nova Scotia," she told him one morning over coffee. "I can't imagine why," she continued smugly.

Despite her best efforts, the department responsible for their flight remained intact (the destruction to their facility notwithstanding), and if one thing continually frustrated Natasha, it was that she had heard no word as to any internal investigation against the department head.

"It is unheard of," she said bitterly after a particularly disappointing trip. "Three of SHIELD's best agents cause millions of dollars worth of damage, and they never stop to ask themselves why?" She ran a hand through her hair angrily, disarranging the soft waves, which told him more than anything else the depths of her irritation. "Were we nothing to them?"

It was obvious that she felt betrayed by SHIELD, in part because it seemed to have succumbed to the same corruption that had molded her earliest years as an assassin, and in part because she had, over the years, come to feel it was her home. He understood the latter pain; was very familiar with the ache the rejection created. They had all been stripped of their loyalty to a formerly beloved organization, and quite violently at that.

Natasha settled gracefully into a nearby chair, her movements at odds with her evident frustration, and stared pensively at the vase of orchids on the table. "Still, we did the right thing," she said suddenly. "Even if it comes to a bad end, we did the right thing."

And that was the ever-present fear, which increasingly fueled his nightmares: that one day they would be found out, and they would not be able to run fast enough. Even if they weren't, eventually they would lose someone. Him, most likely, though it could be any one of them- Clint might take a tumble out of tree, Natasha might one day simply disappear on one of her trips, an enemy agent might spot Jemma on the street.

Jemma was his primary concern, and it was not just because he had grown to love her with the kind of devotion he had thought belonged only in fiction. They didn't teach subterfuge at the science academy. SHIELD scientists might become field-certified, but they rarely needed to learn the skills needed to keep themselves alive and out of sight while being hunted by a hostile organization. They might be assigned an alias, but they rarely had to create their own while on the run. They didn't have to worry about falsified identity papers or how to get their hands on money in a foreign country. For all that the work they did was dangerous, they were relatively sheltered within SHIELD's framework.

The only solution was to train Jemma as if she were an operative herself, as quickly and as thoroughly as possible, and it was a decision that Phil came to regret. They began a few weeks after moving in, and initially everything went smoothly as they focused on information and cognitive training: the contacts they still considered safe, access codes for bank accounts, how to create and maintain a believable alias. There were lessons in Spanish and the Limean dialect for all of them, including Phil, who had not underestimated his linguistic abilities on that day with May.

It was her physical training that was the problem, when they finally began it, and not because Jemma was reluctant to improve her abilities in that area. She threw herself into her training with a kind of single-minded intensity that he found worrying. Her enthusiasm outstripped her stamina, and he often came to bed to find her already asleep, so exhausted that she didn't even move when he spooned up behind her. Her appetite, at least, had returned, but solely out of necessity.

What worried Phil the most was the way she gradually drew apart from all of them as the days continued. She looked haunted- hunted, even- and was disinclined to discuss the matter.

Finally, there came a morning when he couldn't bear to wake her up when Natasha knocked on their door. She was running herself into the ground, and by allowing her to do so the three of them were culpable.

"Not today," he told Natasha firmly. "And not tomorrow. We're slowing the pace."

She nodded without any real surprise, and turned away without a word.

He was dressed and reading on the bed beside her when Jemma woke several hours later, dark shadows under her eyes. "Did I oversleep?" she asked, an edge of desperation in her voice. Her hair tumbled messily over her shoulders as she sat up.

"We're taking a few days off," he replied, placing his book on the table beside him. "We've worked you too hard."

She looked stricken even as she slumped back onto the pillows. "I'm not making any progress," she whispered, and rubbed a hand wearily over her face. "I need to-"

"Sleep," he said firmly. "You need to sleep and laze about in the sun." He gave her a small smile, brushing her mussed hair out of her face. "Would that be so bad?"

Judging by her expression, she was not entirely pleased by this plan.

"Let me take care of you for a few days," he continued, stroking her hair, perplexed when this seemed only to distress her further. He drew his hand away slowly, unsure what his error had been. It was possible that she was trying to outrun- literally and figuratively- whatever memories were haunting her, and the thought of suddenly having too much time to think was becoming in itself a cause of stress.

He worried, though, that she was reconsidering her own decisions, and was no longer comfortable with him being in such close proximity. If she was exhausting herself in an effort to avoid him, he could no longer in good conscience stay in this room. He could sleep elsewhere, but there was nowhere for him to run from this situation- he could only accept her decisions with as much grace as he could muster. He was no stranger to quiet despair, and had become very adept at hiding it.

He slid off the bed, and paused with his hand on the doorknob. "You'll sleep for a few hours more?" he asked her quietly, relieved when she gave him a small nod.

He leaned against the door after he had closed it behind him, suddenly as weary as if he had been the one driven to the edge. One breath, two, and then he forced himself on through the untidy grass of the courtyard to the kitchen.

* * *

Jemma awoke for a second time that day, and spent a few minutes staring absently at the ceiling. It was late, she knew- after noon, most likely- and yet she felt the urge to fall back into sleep once more. Phil had been right: she was pushing herself much too hard. She hadn't felt this exhausted since the early days of their escape, and though she had healed physically her body was making it clear that it would not put up with this kind of treatment any longer.

She couldn't quite push out of her mind the look that had been on his face when he had left her that morning. She had already been slipping back into sleep, so she was unsure if it had been sorrow or disappointment or something else that had caused him to pull back, his brow furrowed. Whatever it had been, she hadn't liked it.

Jemma showered leisurely and made her way out into the courtyard, where she found herself without any desire to go further. She sat on the grass in the shade of the cattleya, considering the past few weeks. They had not been enjoyable, not like the first few months in the house. The lessons they had begun with had not been a problem. Studying was a beloved pastime for her, and it had certainly left her with enough energy at night to gradually explore her relationship with Phil. Her boundaries had been expanding, bit by bit, as she had reclaimed territory she had thought left behind forever.

Then, of course, she had allowed herself to get so caught up in a desire to not be a burden- not to him, not to anyone- that she had very nearly dragged them back to the beginning of their relationship. As much as she enjoyed the way he took care of her, she would not allow herself to be at such a physical disadvantage that he might one day be hurt because she was unable to protect herself. Care had to be reciprocal, but perhaps she had gone at it from the wrong angle.

"Don't beat yourself up about it," Clint said suddenly, dropping onto the grass beside her. "This is fairly normal."

She glanced over at him, lifting the brim of her hat slightly to see his face. "My running around to no real purpose, you mean?"

"After New York, Nat had to physically drag me away from the archery range, more than once." He shrugged, a haunted cast to his eyes. "It was easier to push myself past the point of exhaustion than actually think about what had happened."

She sighed, looking around the courtyard. She had gotten so caught up in her need to be useful that she hadn't done much more than the bare minimum to keep the existing flowers alive, let alone plant the others she had been considering. "I didn't force you to get me out," she finally said, pulling her knees up to her chest, "but now that we're here, being the weak link makes me dangerous."

He shook his head. "We weren't training you because we thought you were dangerous to us; we were training you because it would be irresponsible for us _not_ to."

"And I want to learn," she replied. "I just… went too far."

"All work and no play makes Jemma a dull girl. And deepens Phil's forehead creases," Clint said, leaning back on his elbows. "What's the point of being in sunny Lima if we don't take some time to enjoy it?"

She sighed again. "We're in hiding and you're advocating for a better work-life balance?"

"Someone has to." He met her gaze. "You're right- we're in a dangerous situation, and we have to be prepared for anything that might come. Destroying your health isn't going to help any of us in the long run." He smiled. "Besides, are you really going to let SHIELD continue to make you miserable from a distance? Be happy. I'm told it's the best revenge, though Nat wouldn't agree."

She nodded slowly, relaxing her posture. She plucked one of the weeds that had sprouted around the base of the cattleya. "It looks awfully bare in here, doesn't it?"

"Downright dreary." He lay back in the grass, seeming disinclined to go anywhere. "Phil said something about carnivorous plants?"

"Drosera mucilage is very elastic," she told him, surprised to hear a note of genuine enthusiasm in her voice for the first time in quite a while. "Its applications as a biomaterial could be revolutionary, especially in medicine."

"Huh." He was silent for a moment. "You want a lab?"

She raised a brow. "Of course I want a lab. How do you propose to build me one? It seems like that kind of paper trail would excite suspicion."

He laughed. "True. But maybe we could do it slowly. For now, tend to your garden of Audrey IIs. Maybe throw in some belladonna and foxglove."

He rose unexpectedly, and a second later the door to the kitchen opened. "Feed me, Seymour," he said with a quick grin, and disappeared onto the roof.

Phil placed a tray beside her, and hesitated before taking a seat on the grass. "Are you feeling better?"

She took off her hat so that the brim no longer hid her face, and smiled at him. "Much."

He was still regarding her with a look that was half cautious and half hopeful, which quickly turned to startled pleasure when she moved to sit beside him and reached for the tea he had brought. "I went a little bit overboard," she said quietly, and placed a hand on his knee. "Thank you for pulling me back."

"We pushed you too far," he began, and she cut him off.

"I pushed myself too far. I don't- I would hate if someone got hurt trying to protect me," she admitted. "You've already done so much for me, and I don't want to be a burden."

His expression softened, and there was something in his eyes that told her that if they had been farther along in their physical relationship, he most likely would have carried her off to bed at that exact moment. "Not a burden," he said, and the feel of his arms around her was a sudden reminder of everything she had been missing while she had been tilting at windmills. "Never a burden," he continued, and she placed her mug of tea on the grass before he kissed her. It proved to be a wise decision, as her hands were shaking by the time they separated.

"I'm going to buy more plants," she said when she had recovered sufficiently to speak. "It will be a good opportunity to practice my Limean." She smoothed out the remaining crease on his forehead with her fingers. "No more frowning."

He looked at ease for the first time in days, perhaps even weeks. "That might be difficult, darling," he said, and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "Stern expressions are second nature to me."

She had never been much for endearments, but she was going to have to reconsider her stance on that matter, because hearing one from him was surprisingly thrilling. For now she settled for a teasing, "I'm very aware of that, sir," and kissed him again before he could respond.

When Jemma's training resumed, it was with set hours that everyone obeyed scrupulously, even Natasha (for the most part). Jemma had been rather afraid of disappointing the woman who was becoming a friend, but Natasha openly approved of the change- as openly as she approved of anything, anyway. Under the carefully monitored schedule Jemma was pleased to find that she was finally progressing. Her endurance improved, and she began to build muscle where none had been before.

Food once more became a source of pleasure. Phil had long ago fulfilled his bargain with Natasha, but now he began to draw them all in to help with dinner preparations. It became the most relaxing part of the day, gathering in the kitchen to experiment with the local produce and herbs and chatting with glasses of wine in hand. Jemma was pleased to see that even Natasha unbent enough to laugh along with them.

Jemma's one regret- though she would not allow herself to dwell too long on it, lest she fall back into her old habits- was she was not a natural markswoman. This did not seem to bother Clint a great deal, not even when several weeks had gone by with little improvement.

"Hey," he said, as yet another one of her bullets struck the wrong tree, "at least you don't say 'bang' whenever you fire, like that teammate of yours. And we know that you have perfect aim at close range," he continued with a wink.

"No one will ever let me forget that, will they?" Jemma asked with a sigh, her next shot winging the edge of the target. Sadly, it was the closest she had come all afternoon.

Clint grinned. "The first time Sitwell appeared in the cafeteria after being released from medical, he received a standing ovation."

"Oh, God," she groaned, rolling her sore shoulders. "He must hate me."

He looked suspiciously smug. "I might have sent him a condolence card. Or three."

"_With_ a playlist?" she asked archly.

"With an entire thumb drive worth of songs." He sighed dramatically. "He didn't appreciate my hard work very much. Try again."

He finally allowed her to put away the gun when it became obvious that her frustration was affecting her ability to focus, only to herd her toward the jungle like an overgrown sheep dog. "Let's go climb a tree," he said cheerfully, heading toward the tallest one in sight. "The sky is so clear we'll be able to see for miles."

"I hate you, just a little bit," she grumbled as she scrambled for the first branch. "You know I don't like heights."

"Come on," he chided playfully, perched ten feet above her. "Are you telling me that the woman who jumped out of a plane without a parachute is scared of a little tree? Jemma, not even _I_ will jump out of a plane without a parachute."

"Didn't really have a choice," she huffed, pausing to take a breath before hoisting herself onto the next branch. "Imminent destruction and all."

"Nah," he replied, reaching out to steady her when she joined him. "That's bravery, pure and simple. A coward would have taken everyone down with her."

His smile was warm, almost brotherly, and he cemented that feeling by patting her on the head. "Only seventy feet more."

Jemma gave him a weary smile. "Oh, fuck you," she said, surprising a laugh out of him. "It's at least ninety feet to the top," she muttered, climbing up to the next branch.

"I thought you would feel better if I shaved off a little bit," he admitted, matching her pace. "But really- seventy feet or ninety, it's a long way to fall."

"How very comforting."

"I thought so."

* * *

The heat at the height of summer slowed their days, and more and more often Phil found himself taking an afternoon siesta with Jemma, the shutters closed against the bright sunlight. They began to explore the surrounding countryside and spent the occasional evening strolling the streets of downtown Lima. May had been right, as she often was- the restaurants of Lima were multiple and varied, the menus ranging from traditional Peruvian cuisine to inventive world fusion. Jemma developed a small obsession with the fritters known as picarones, which she devoured with an almost childlike delight, licking molasses off her fingers unashamedly.

And at the center of it all was the courtyard, which was now filled with flowers and grew richer in color and texture as every day passed. On the Bus he never would have guessed that Jemma possessed such a green thumb, but her flowers grew so profusely that he half-suspected alien tech was involved.

"Maybe I could plant some vegetables," she mused one day, a cup of tea in her hands. "There's still room in one corner. Or an herb garden."

She had begun to put down roots of her own, that much was obvious, and he hoped he would never have to tear her away from the place that made her feel so secure. She was slowly but surely regaining her vibrancy and confidence, and he increasingly found it difficult to practice restraint in the evenings. He wanted to press her into the sheets and make her sigh; to see her in her full glory, speechless and sated.

He wasn't getting a great deal of sleep, which was unfortunate, because the one thing Natasha insisted on in the new schedule were the drills that she was allowed to call at any hour of the day or night. They all had to know the various escape routes, and more than that they needed to be able to avoid the many traps that had been set along the way, no matter the circumstances. Natasha had yet to call for a drill after dark, but it was inevitable that she would one day pound on the door at two in the morning.

The drills, in the daylight, were not particularly enjoyable. The jungle was full of its own unplanned traps and hazards, and the pace that Natasha set wore on them all. It was a necessary evil, one they all endured without complaint.

Jemma was always quiet the night after a drill. She slept uneasily, often waking suddenly, her breathing labored. If asked she would only say that it was the nurse again, and more than once he found her scrubbing her hands obsessively the morning after.

"It just replays over and over," she told him one early morning, the light barely peeking over the horizon. She was crying as he gently rinsed and dried her reddened hands, and let him lead her back to the bed. "Stay with me," she whispered, and hid her face against his chest when he laid down beside her.

His own nightmares continued to change. He often found himself running down a blood-spattered white sand path through the Peruvian jungle, the sound of the ocean ringing in his ears, mixed with Jemma's sobs. He never could find her, in those dreams, and when he woke in the dark he would run a hand gently down her side, reassuring himself that she was still there, still breathing.

"Bad dreams?" she asked one night, her voice still blurred with sleep. She shifted to nuzzle her nose against his neck, one arm slung across his chest. "Tahiti?"

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and tightened his hold on her, enjoying the way she hummed happily in response. "The usual," he replied, reluctant to burden her with the shifting landscape of his nightmares.

She was quiet for a moment, her breath warm against his neck. "I'm happy to listen, Phil. Really."

"I just can't find you," he admitted. "You're nowhere to be seen."

Her hand curved over his shoulder in a gentle caress. "I know," she replied. "I can never find you, either."

* * *

The garden in the courtyard was not Jemma's first, but it was by far her favorite. Her first garden had been tucked away in a corner of her father's grander one, where she had grown tidily ordered clematis and hollyhocks and primroses. Those flowers were still there, or they had been when last she was home- her father had continued planting the same plants even after she left. Perhaps he would still, in memory of his lost daughter.

At the academy she had kept a small herb garden in her dorm room window. The pots of mint, lemon balm and lavender were within direct sight of her desk, and she had often found herself staring absentmindedly at them when her whirling mind had threatened information overload. The fresh lavender, crushed and tucked underneath her pillow in a small bag, had helped her sleep at night.

Here she restored the cattleya and oncidium, cossetting the plants back to health. The vines clambering the portico proved to be a type of passiflora, which bloomed purple and white and multi-petaled, tiny stars against the stone columns. She planted mirabilis jalapa and cantua buxifolia with little regard to orderly lines, and amidst all these beauties she planted her drosera and heliamphora.

Natasha seemed to like that section of the garden best. "No Venus fly-traps?" she asked, kneeling to study the gleaming tips of the drosera's tentacles.

"They won't grow here, or not easily," Jemma replied, a bit regretfully. "They do best in North America."

Natasha nodded, and was silent for a moment. "Do you need me to get you anything?"

Jemma glanced at her, unsure what, exactly, she was offering.

Natasha smiled slightly. "Birth control, I mean."

"I would be most appreciative," Jemma answered carefully. "That would be helpful." It would, and soon. She had grown bolder in the past months- and he had followed her lead, wonderful man that he was- but as delicious as their time together was she still found herself mired at some point between their first kiss and the consummation, unwilling to retreat and unable to move forward.

Those days, however, were swiftly coming to a close.

Natasha stood, rising to her feet in one fluid motion. "I'll have that for you soon," she promised as she left, disappearing into the room she shared with Clint.

Jemma stared absently down at the sundew glistening in the light, her face shaded by the brim of her hat. Natasha's offer was providence itself, though it brought to light a wish that she had been studiously avoiding for weeks now. She dreamed, occasionally, of a cradle in the shade of the portico, of a toddler taking wobbly steps across the grass. Those dreams hurt nearly as much as the nightmares, and she always woke feeling as if something had slipped from her grasp. There wouldn't be a child- there could never be one. She couldn't be sure that she was still fertile, not with as many gaps in her memory as she had, and there was no guarantee that Phil's sperm was still viable after everything that had happened to him.

In any case, it would be irresponsible of them to create a child in these circumstances.

She left her garden, stepping into the cool of her own room and kicking off her shoes. She would shower and nap, and perhaps when she woke the images of what could not be would have faded.

* * *

Jemma found the bag a few days later, tucked in amongst her scarves and skimpier pieces of lingerie, items she had yet to do more than examine speculatively. Inside were the supplies Natasha had promised, the pills nestled in their foil and dimpled plastic. It was a year's supply, at least, stacked neatly and discretely in its cloth covering.

She took the first dose that morning, and when she met Phil on the portico she kissed him with more than her usual enthusiasm. Unsurprisingly, he did not object, but merely pulled her tightly against him, ignoring the whistle that originated from the roof.

"He drives me nuts," he muttered against her mouth, and she broke away to laugh.

"I'll give it an 7.5 for execution and enthusiasm," Clint called out. "You lost points because everyone is still fully dressed."

Jemma raised a brow playfully. "You were the one who decided to bring him along on your grand heist."

"Well, I could hardly bring Natasha and _not_ bring Clint." His thumbs crept under the hem of her blouse, stroking the skin along the indent of her waist. "Let me take you to lunch?" he asked quietly. "That little restaurant a few miles away. We could get lost on the way back."

"How lost?"

"As lost as you like."

She considered the idea as best she could, distracted as she was by the rasp of his thumbs against her skin. "Maybe we could lose our way for a few hours."

He smiled and stepped away, and to her chagrin dropped his hands from her hips. "I'll see you at noon, then."

She wandered over to the heliamphora, pleasure warring with a sudden anxiety. A year ago she never would have guessed that she could feel this way about anyone, let alone Phil Coulson, who was the living embodiment of everything a SHIELD agent should be. She had been content with her lab and her research, with the fast-paced conversations in scientific jargon between herself and Fitz that left everyone else looking bemused.

And yet here, in this life she had never imagined, she realized that she was far happier with her present circumstances than with the tidy little life she had once had. The pain that had brought her here might still leave her shaking at night, her scars might never fade, and one day SHIELD might come crashing in on them, but she had built a life, nonetheless. She had befriended Clint and Natasha, who together had given her a confidence in her own physical abilities that she had never had before. She had restored the courtyard garden and dozed in the patch of shade next to the cattleya, and though her Spanish was far from perfect she could make herself understood to strangers, and could understand them in return.

And there was Phil, who had pulled her out of hell when she had just been one of his scientists, and now looked at her as if she had become the omphalos stone of his existence. She wanted decades with him. She was greedy for the time.

_Give me the years_, she prayed, uncertain who she was praying to. _Please give me the years._

_I deserve them._


	10. Commiphora myrrha and boswellia sacra

_Until the day breathes_  
_and the shadows flee,_  
_I will go away to the mountain of myrrh_  
_and the hill of frankincense._  
_You are altogether beautiful, my love;_  
_there is no flaw in you._  
-Song of Songs 4.6-7

Phil parked the car off a back road in the shade of a stand of cedar trees. Jemma had been quiet throughout lunch, a worried cast to her expression, but when he had asked her if she wished to return home she had been quite explicit in her wishes.

"I want to get a bit lost," she had said firmly, fastening her seat belt. "I want to be alone with you." Her left hand had landed on his knee, the diamonds on her ring catching the light with sudden fire. "Please."

She was in his lap before the keys were even out of the ignition, but once there she seemed to lose her initiative. "Are we running out of time?" she asked quietly, the sweet press of her hips against his at odds with the wistful expression on her face.

There was no answer he could give her with any certainty. Natasha was one of the best in the business when it came to intel and obfuscating the truth, but there was no guarantee that she could hide them forever. Discovery might come without warning, either jerking them from sleep or surprising them in the middle of the day. He had a sudden vision of snipers on the roof and Jemma in the garden, unaware of the danger above.

In a strange way, time was no longer quantifiable.

"I don't know," he told her honestly, and she nodded.

She kissed him suddenly, almost desperately, and he quickly realized she was crying. He eased her back, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket.

She accepted it with a choked laugh. "Do you always carry one of these around?"

"My mother was very particular," he said, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, "with regards to how best court a lady."

She laughed again, and much to his disappointment moved back to her seat and adjusted her skirt. "And how closely have you been following those rules?"

He considered her question with a small smile. "Dinner, wine, handkerchiefs- check, check, check. Thoughtful gifts, check- or so I hope. She also said that women want a man who can make them laugh, but I think you've been humoring me so far."

Her smile was luminous. "I think you're funnier than Clint."

"I'll take it."

She shifted so that her legs draped over his lap, restoring some of their earlier intimacy. "I think you've done very well, though she might not approve of the fact that you are currently a fugitive for my sake."

"On the contrary," he replied dryly, "she would have been very disappointed in me if I had left you there. She would have called it ungentlemanly. You have to understand that not only did she have very interesting ideas about chivalry, she could also hit a bulls-eye at 50 paces and was arrested more than once at a variety of anti-government protests."

"Did she know about SHIELD?"

"To an extent. I think she hoped that I would eventually come to my senses and join some sort of commune." He smiled slyly at her, stroking her bare knees. "Perhaps I could have bred sheep."

She began to giggle helplessly.

"If I had put my mind to it, I'm sure I would have been very good at animal husbandry," he informed her teasingly, one hand slipping under the edge of her skirt to stroke the skin of her inner thighs. "You don't think so?"

Her laughter died. She was flushed, now, watching him with a gaze that was the very definition of _come hither._ He pulled his hand back to her calves, suddenly aware of the cramped confines of the car. They weren't teenagers at Lover's Lane, content with pulling clothing aside and knocking heads and limbs against car doors and gear shafts. Whatever his earlier plans had been, they were now null- he wouldn't have their first time here, when he could have her spread lovely and willing beneath him on their bed, secure on its wide, soft surface.

"I haven't wasted our time, have I?" she asked suddenly, softly. "By waiting so long."

He reached for her hand, and she bestowed it willingly on him. "No," he said firmly, and pressed a kiss to her palm. "When you're ready is the right time, and not a moment before."

She considered him in the soft, diffused light of the cedars. "Well," she murmured, "it won't be long now."

* * *

It rained that week, and Natasha burst into their room at three in the morning, unconcerned- approving, even- when Phil's first reaction was to aim a gun directly at her head. "Up," she said crisply. "Get dressed, quickly. This is a drill."

And that was how Jemma found herself scrambling through the underbrush in the dark, slipping in the mud and soaked to the skin. The drills were difficult enough in the daylight, but until this moment she had thought herself reasonably prepared for an emergency. Now, as she blundered into yet another patch of thorny vines, she realized how wrong she had been.

"Slow down," Natasha said, appearing suddenly at her side. "The conditions are making you panic, and that's perfectly normal. You need to remember that you still have the advantage."

Jemma glared at her in the dark, feeling the sting of fresh scratches on her arms. "How so?"

"You've memorized all the routes, Jemma," Natasha told her calmly. "They're second nature to you, now. Anyone who is coming after you won't know the terrain, and they'll find the dark and the rain even more confusing than you do. Slow down, and be sure of yourself, otherwise you'll land in a pit."

Jemma took in a deep breath and nodded. Natasha was right. She knew exactly where she was, and if she had been thinking clearly she would have remembered that particular patch of vines. She would veer right around this tree, and then continue north for twenty paces. The route continued to zig-zag for another mile after that, crossing over a ravine and around the vast trunks of a multitude of trees, before finally ending at a small cave. There were supplies there, as well as money and another set of fake identity papers, wrapped securely in plastic against the damp. From there they would have to hike out of the jungle and make their way to one of the safe houses Natasha had set up, and then flee the country.

"If the worst comes, you know what to do," Natasha continued. "You wait for no one."

That would be the hardest part. They had contingency plans in place, safe spots to hide for certain periods of time, but it was understood that no one would wait indefinitely. A sudden attack might separate them all for good.

They finally returned to the house at dawn, covered in mud and exhausted.

Jemma leaned wearily against the shower wall, examining her new wounds as water darkened by dirt and blood pooled at her feet. Some of the scratches were deeper than she had thought, and might scar. She found that she didn't mind that much. They were a small price to pay for safety, and these scars she had earned herself, of her own free will. There had been a time when she would have hesitated to venture into the jungle at all, and yet here she was, confidently throwing herself headlong down those dark, treacherous paths.

The rain was still drumming against the roof when she left the bedroom, and the air was beginning to turn sultry in the burgeoning heat of the day. She found the other three in the kitchen, lingering over breakfast.

"You did very well," Natasha said in a rare moment of praise, giving her a small smile. "We'll do it again sometime soon."

Jemma tried not to wince. No use begging for Natasha to reconsider; she'd only drag Jemma back out to the jungle that very moment.

"Nothing delights Nat more than a pre-dawn stroll through the woods," Clint said dryly. "She just has to share the joy with everyone. She's right, though. We didn't have to pull you out of a ditch or free you from one of the nets, and I can tell you from personal experience that she will mock you mercilessly if she ever finds you hanging from a tree by your ankles."

"And deservedly so," Natasha shot back. "You should have known better."

Phil set a mug of tea in front of Jemma as the other two continued to bicker about a past mission in Budapest, and he frowned at her bandaged arms.

"Don't fuss," Jemma said with a smile, laying a hand on his. "It's just some scratches. You look like you got a few of your own."

He smiled wryly. "Guilty." His thumb stroked her palm, one of the few unmarked spots on that arm. "You were amazing."

She couldn't help but agree with him.

* * *

A few days later Natasha left on reconnaissance, and when she returned she looked unaccountably amused. She made her appearance in the middle of dinner, and without ceremony served herself and sat down next to Clint.

"Your team has vanished," she said bluntly, dipping a piece of bread into her soup. "Minus Agent Morgan, of course."

Phil placed his spoon carefully aside and leaned back in his chair, considering the multitude of possibilities and not liking any of them. "What have you heard?"

"They were reassigned to different sectors after you left, but a week ago they all failed to report for work. No one's seen them since." She caught his gaze, shaking her head slightly at his unspoken question. "They left willingly, as best I can tell."

"Do we have to leave?" Jemma asked quietly, crumpling her napkin in her fist.

Natasha shook her head again. "Not yet, and maybe not at all. There's no indication that SHIELD has any idea where we are- in fact, I've been doing my best to lay a false trail to Greenland- and their attention is split, now."

Jemma stood suddenly. "Those idiots," she said with unaccustomed ferocity, and picked up her dishes. They clattered as she dropped them into the sink, and Phil heard the distinctive sound of china shattering. "They didn't need to do that."

"Phil tends to inspire ridiculous levels of loyalty," Natasha noted dryly. "And I doubt they would have left with no reason."

He ignored Natasha's first statement. "Either they're trying to protect us, or they've found something we haven't. Either way, she's right- this will distract SHIELD in the long run."

It didn't mean that he was happy about May's decision- because this definitely would have been _May's_ decision. By disappearing along with them she was adding legitimacy to whatever mission they might be on. Technically Phil was still dead, at least according to official records, and Natasha and Clint had always been renegades, but May was the Cavalry. The news of her defection would spread like wild-fire.

He imagined that some very high-ranking members of SHIELD would be sleeping poorly for the conceivable future.

"This is going to rock SHIELD to the core," Clint said, apparently coming to the same conclusion and taking it a step further. "The Melinda May groupies are going to have a field day with this."

Phil winced instinctively, knowing how May would have responded to that statement were she here, but also aware that Clint spoke the truth. May had her own fans, and they had the potential to be quite bothersome. By leaving, May might well dismantle the entire damn operation, and wouldn't that just drive her crazy.

Jemma's anger seemed to fade, leaving her quiet and drawn. She resumed her seat. "Do we know anything else?"

Natasha shook her head. "There one day, gone another. No signs of struggle in their quarters, no strange goodbyes the day before. However," she said slowly, a small smile appearing on her face, "something very interesting happened with a certain department we've had our eyes on. I happened to intercept an order that called for the contents of a particular file room to be destroyed."

Clint tsked. "Stupid of them to put that in a memo."

"Indeed, especially since they've been so good at covering their tracks thus far. So," she continued, "I did some judicious editing, and arranged to have everything delivered to Fury's office."

Even Clint was silent at this. Phil glanced over at Jemma, who was wide-eyed and tense. "What was in that file room, Natasha?"

She shrugged. "That, I do not know. It could be fifty years worth of expense reports for cleaning supplies, but I doubt it. In any case, having it unceremoniously dumped next to Fury's desk will be suspicious enough, no matter the contents."

"As Darcy once said, you're such a troll, Nat," Clint said with a grin, and she looked pleased.

"I know." She smirked. "By the way, Phil, Darcy Lewis is very upset that you died without returning her ipod."

"Though not so much that you died," Clint added. "Very draconian sense of justice, that one."

The tense set of Jemma's shoulders softened as she listened to their exchange, and she smiled slightly when Phil caught her eye. "The tide was going to turn eventually," she said with a shrug. She glanced over at the sink with a rueful expression. "I broke a bowl."

"I once spent an hour smashing every dish in Tony's china cabinet," Clint told her. "It's very therapeutic, isn't it?"

Phil raised a brow. "And what did Pepper have to say about that?"

"It was her idea," he replied cheerfully. "She hated that pattern. Said it gave her heartburn."

"Priapic satyrs," Natasha said decisively, "do not belong on fine china."

And with that, Jemma burst out laughing.

* * *

She was still amused when she prepared for bed several hours later, buoyed by Tony Stark's terrible taste in china patterns and the first hopeful news they had received in months. Though she was not pleased that her former team had placed themselves into unnecessary danger, there was still an odd kind of satisfaction in knowing that somewhere in the world, the Cavalry was on the warpath.

Jemma hesitated as she reached for her pajamas, and turned to look at herself in the mirror. The scratches from the thorns were fading on her arms, and her scars still drew the eye, but she unexpectedly found herself past the point of caring. She thought that she might actually be beautiful, in her own way, where before she had never allowed herself to ascribe more than a general prettiness to her features. She had different standards for beauty, now: the brilliant blooms of caesalpinia pulcherrima, the scent of vanilla planifolia still on the vine, the grandeur of swietenia macrophylla. She could almost see them in herself, in the curve of her hips, in the lean muscle evident in her legs and arms, in the way her hair curled in the heat.

Coming to a decision that was both sudden and yet not sudden at all, she shook out her hair, letting it tumble around her shoulders. She was grinning, she realized, practically buzzing with excitement. She pulled a camisole on, not yet bold enough to simply saunter into the bedroom in just her knickers (she knew, though, that he would doubtlessly be delighted once he got over the shock, and she made a mental note to try it one day soon). The thin cotton clung in a very satisfactory manner; less of a veil and more of an enticement.

Jemma opened the bathroom door confidently, and he stared at her in a way she found quite gratifying, his book slipping from his hand onto the floor. He didn't say anything as she approached, but the look in his eyes was electrifying.

"How patient you've been," she said with a smile, pushing aside the blanket and straddling his lap. "I hope the old saying about good things coming to those who wait applies here."

He kissed her, pulling her firmly against his chest. "Let me prove it to you, love," he said, and he did.


	11. Rosa x damascena

_Mais à elle seule elle est plus importante que vous toutes, puisque c'est elle que j'ai arrosée. Puisque c'est elle que j'ai mise sous globe. Puisque c'est elle que j'ai abritée par le paravent._

_But she and she alone is more important than all of you, because I have watered her, and I have planted her in the earth, and I have created a shield around her._

_Voici mon secret. Il est très simple: on ne voit bien qu'avec le coeur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux. [...] C'est le temps que tu as perdu pour ta rose qui fait ta rose si importante._

_Behold my secret. It is very simple: one only sees well with the heart. The eyes are unable to see what is truly vital. It is the time which you have lost for your rose which makes your rose so important._  
-_Le Petit Prince_, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

When he woke she still slept beside him, breathing quiet and deep in the early morning light, a slight smile on her face. She almost glowed amidst the sheets, pale, blushing skin backdropped against the blue, her hair strewn across the pillows.

His own english rose, blooming in the Lima heat and determined to turn sorrow into joy. The desire to touch her was overwhelming, but he kept his distance, aware that he had kept her up unconscionably late last night.

Or that morning, to be precise.

She stirred into wakefulness, stretching leisurely. The sheets slipped, baring her breasts to his grateful eyes.

"You're not touching me," she commented quietly, her eyes still closed.

"I didn't want to wake you."

"Hmm." She pushed the sheets down to her hips and met his gaze, a slight challenge in her eyes. "I'm pretty sure Jonathan would have woken Rosemary."

He laughed in surprise and moved closer. "Your backstories really are absurdly detailed," he commented, running a finger lightly over the peak of one breast, and smiled at the sudden hitch in her breathing. "How much time, exactly, did you spend trying to figure out their fictional sex life?"

"Oh," she said, attempting nonchalance as his hand slid slowly down her torso, "not as long as you might imagine."

"Maybe I'd like to know how closely Rosemary's preferences overlap with Jemma's," he replied, his hand lingering low on her belly. "My interest is academic, you understand."

"Perhaps I could offer you a Venn diagram?" She sighed happily as his hand moved to its ultimate goal. "I love your hands, Phil," she said dreamily. "I'm really quite fond of them. Always have been."

"You should have said something sooner." He dropped a kiss onto her shoulder, enjoying the way she moved against his fingers. "Maybe at one of the team meetings."

Her laugh was cut short as she sucked in a sudden breath. "Oh yes," she said a moment later, sounding distracted. "That would have gone over very well. Sounded very natural, I'm sure."

He paused, and she shot him a frustrated look. "A man likes to know he has nice hands, Jemma," he teased. "I'd like to know how you would have phrased it."

"Oh," she said, blushing, "maybe something like, 'Sir, may I compliment you on the very elegant alignment of your metacarpals with the proximal phalanx of the phalanges and metacarpophalangeal joints? Such an alignment indicates the capacity for both great dexterity and delicacy.'" She stuttered slightly as she spoke, shifting her hips.

He rewarded her with a firm stroke of his thumb, and she giggled. "Didn't even mention the distal phalanges or the pollex."

"Not surprising; you have your mind on other things."

"I'm going to make you pay for this later," she promised breathlessly, and bit her lip.

He smiled. "I really hope so."

* * *

The afternoon was hot and bright, and even indoors the heat bordered on stifling, but Jemma couldn't bring herself to care. She had a pitcher of lemonade at hand and a lover to stare at in an overly soppy fashion, and she would throw something at Clint if he dared make a joke about it.

He did, and she chucked a pillow at his head, and only his own quick reflexes saved him from the incoming projectile.

"Troublesome," Natasha said shortly, and pulled Clint out of the living room by his ear.

The smile Phil gave her once they were alone was positively indecent, and the feel of his fingertips on her ankle made her feel short of breath. "You're very distracting," she said, the memory of his hands and lips against her skin an almost palpable force.

"I could say the same." His expression softened, desire subsiding beneath a warmth that was no less intoxicating. "How are you?"

She was tired and sore and wanted to do everything all over again. "Very well," she replied, moving to curl up next to him. "I could give you a list of relevant adjectives that describe how I'm feeling, if you like," she said with a pert smile. "Though I find that I am both sated and insatiable, so there will be some contradictions."

He unexpectedly hauled her into his lap, and she smiled in delight at the feel of his arms around her waist. "I do like your physique," she informed him without shame, stroking her fingers over one of his biceps. "So very solid."

"For a man of my age?" he asked, the beginnings of a smile lurking.

"For a man of any age," she said firmly. "I would say more, but Clint might return soon, and it would only give him more ammunition." She shot him a meaningful look. "I'm afraid it might get explicit."

He stared at her for a moment, his gaze unreadable. "I'd like a full report this evening," he said, in much the same manner he might have asked her to explain some scientific oddity on the Bus. "If you'll oblige me."

"Of course." She brushed her lips across his. "Pick a color." She smiled at his confused look. "Natasha is a very thorough shopper."

He surprised her by laughing, releasing her to lean back and cover his face with his hands. "Natasha," he finally said in what she thought might be the understatement of the year, "is just very thorough in general." His hands dropped, and he gave her a slow smile. "Surprise me."

* * *

She wore rose pink, and treated him to a very comprehensive lecture on the muscles of the human body and why she was appreciative of his in particular. She slumped on top of him in the aftermath, looking very pleased with herself.

"That's quite a smile," he murmured as soon as he was able, hands still curved around her hips. She had lovely hips. Lovely everything, really. She was the most delightfully earnest and enthusiastic bed partner he'd ever had, though whoever she had been with before had evidently taken advantage of her generous nature. She was unused to someone else seeing to her pleasure, and the look of surprise on her face the first time he brought her to climax had been equal parts thrilling and heartbreaking.

"Is that what it's supposed to be like?" she had asked that first night, sounding dazed and disbelieving.

It was certainly what it was going to be like with him, if he had anything to say about it.

"I'm making mental notes for my ongoing research." She pressed a kiss to his neck. "It's going to take me a while to compile all the relevant data. Several decades, at least."

He dearly hoped that they would have those decades. "You have very high hopes for my long-term stamina, I see."

"Well," she said, her expression rather wicked, "I intend to be reaping the benefits for years to come." Her smile turned sweet and sincere. "I love you to distraction, Phil."

She had said it before, had professed her love for weeks before climbing into bed wearing sky blue lace and cotton, and every time he found himself amazed and unbelieving of his good fortune. Simply repeating the words to her didn't feel like enough. If she had asked, he would have sought out the apples of the Hesperides for her.

"Jemma." He kissed her deeply. "I would set fire to numerous buildings for you."

She rolled off of him, laughing. "My white knight," she teased, her eyes sparkling. "I'm very glad to hear it." She lay there, one arm curled under her head, looking well-ravished. "This is what I hoped for, that first day here. Happy nights."

Happy nights, to offset the nightmares. He had hoped for much the same. "Is there anything that might make them happier?"

She considered his question for a moment. "Well," she mused, "it would be nice to go to bed with you without worrying that Natasha will call for a drill at a crucial moment." She smiled. "But I think we're just going to have to live with that."

A sad fact, but a fact nonetheless. It was practically inevitable that she would interrupt them eventually, and it would probably be as embarrassing as hell. Especially once Clint found out.

He could only imagine what kind of playlist Clint would put together for that.

She was still smiling at him, her left hand lying between them. The rings had suited her that first night Natasha had produced them, and he had grown accustomed to seeing them on her hand. Now, as she lay bare and disheveled beside him, they seemed to sparkle with new light. Their marriage certificate might be as fraudulent as their passports, but as far as he was concerned she was his wife in truth.

"Such a face," she said softly, moving her hand to his chest. "I might start blushing again."

He turned onto his side to face her, suddenly newly aware of his own ring as well. "Just admiring your lovely hand, wife."

She did blush, but her expression was one of pleasure and not embarrassment. "Husband," she said experimentally, and smiled. "I do like that. It makes me feel quite possessive."

He certainly felt possessive, though he had thus far managed to avoid biting her neck and uttering a triumphant 'mine.' He had to preserve some dignity, after all, and she might not like it.

He settled for pulling her back toward him, relishing the feel of her skin against his. His beautiful Jemma, safe and alive and so very warm.

* * *

Winter crept slowly in, the temperatures dropping into the sixties. Natasha chased them out into the jungle on a regular basis, day and night, and more than once did interrupt them at a crucial moment.

"SHIELD isn't going to care if you've achieved orgasm yet or not," she yelled through the door on one memorable occasion, reducing Jemma to a fit of giggles. "Your base urges are going to get you both killed."

Jemma conceded that she was, indeed, correct, but that didn't make it any easier to pull on clothing and flee into the jungle in the dark, fully aroused. Admittedly, it was harder on Phil than it was on her, and they did have perfectly delightful times in the shower after the fact.

The interruptions and Clint's teasing aside, Jemma could find no fault with that winter. Even her daily training proved to be surprisingly invigorating, despite the morning drizzle and the cool, breezy afternoons. Natasha continued to collect information and plant false intel, keeping an ear out for any news on the team. They had gone to ground somewhere, and even Natasha was impressed at how they had virtually disappeared from sight.

"It helps that they didn't steal your little plane," she said dryly. "Though I know May was fond of it."

The nights bordered on crisp, but Jemma had a bed filled with blankets and a husband more than willing to keep her warm, and she took full advantage of both. She loved how he had made their rings into something more than accessories to their cover, how he whispered 'wife' into her ear as an endearment when they made love. She had underestimated how strongly she would react to Phil as a lover, and delighted in the surprise. There was something about the way he touched her, mixed with the sound of his voice and his scent that made for a very potent chemical cocktail. There were some days when simply meeting his gaze across the kitchen table was enough to make her blush as her nerve endings sparked with remembered joy.

It was the end of November when everything changed, as the temperatures steadily rose and she found herself thinking ahead to Christmas gifts. She had been returning from the market, pleased that her Limean had improved enough that she could engage in casual conversation with the various vendors, and had just reached the front door when someone stepped out from the bushes. Her bags dropped from the ground as she struck out instinctively, the long hours with Natasha paying off as the man flew back into the foliage.

She broke for the treeline, and it was only after she was sprinting down one of the paths that she realized that the man she had just thrown to the ground was none other than Grant Ward.


	12. Bellis perennis

_It's lucky, oh it's lucky then_  
_That you're the kind of girl_  
_Who can gaze upon a daisy_  
_And the whole chain just unfurls._  
- "Accidentally Daisies," Danny Schmidt

Jemma hesitated, almost stumbling on the path as she fought the urge to turn around and run back to the house. Ward was an ally, so why should she run?

She picked up speed, continuing her flight deeper into the jungle. She had to run because there was no guarantee he remained an ally, and because if Natasha found out that she hadn't followed orders she very well might hang Jemma from a tree by her ankles. So she would run, and she would wait at one of the agreed upon hiding places, and if no one came for her- well, she would deal with that later.

* * *

The sound of a scuffle outside of the front door drew all three of them outdoors, only to find Grant Ward sprawled in the bushes and no Jemma to be seen. The situation irritated Phil to no end. He hadn't been in favor of Jemma wandering off alone in the first place, though it had nothing to do with her defensive capabilities (which were excellent), and everything to do with the fact that the buddy system did not automatically lose its practical value after kindergarten.

Jo Frost would doubtlessly have agreed with him, but Natasha had insisted that Jemma needed to gain confidence outside of their protective sphere, and he had grudgingly acquiesced. Very grudgingly.

Ward raised his empty hands when Clint and Phil leveled their weapons at him, not looking particularly surprised at their greeting. He did seem surprised by the fact that Jemma had just knocked him onto his ass. "Was that really Simmons?" he asked, sounding rather amazed. "I had no idea she could move like that." He stood slowly and allowed Clint to pat him down and relieve him of a half-dozen weapons, not distressed in the slightest that his former boss still had a gun aimed at his head. "Did that just… develop?"

Natasha, who had been examining the path of crushed grass that led away from the house, looked up in sudden interest. "What kind of chatter have you been hearing, Agent Ward?"

"The kind that probably shouldn't be discussed out in the open," he replied. "May sent me. Check my right front pocket."

Clint did so, and produced a slim strip of paper. "Mandarin," he said after a moment. "Not one of my languages." He handed the note to Phil, raising his own weapon as he did so.

Phil accepted the paper, noting May's distinctive brushstrokes, and raised a brow at the message. "Basically, 'talk to him, you idiots'," he translated loosely, omitting the impressive profanity she had also included. He lowered his weapon with a small sigh. "May was never much for tact. Someone needs to go after Jemma."

"Oh, pick me, pick me," Clint replied playfully. "If he needs killing, Nat will have more fun with that, anyway."

Phil noticed with some small amusement that Ward did have the sense to look nervous at that pronouncement. "Get inside, then," he said with a jerk of his head. "Clint, be quick about it."

Clint loped off toward the jungle, disappearing quickly from sight.

Natasha leaned against the wall once they were inside, keeping a close eye on the situation as Phil and Ward considered each other warily.

Finally Ward spoke, breaking the tense silence. "Sir, is Simmons okay?"

"She's fine," he replied curtly. "As eager as I am to hear your news, Ward, wait until Clint and Jemma come back. They both need to hear whatever you have to say."

Ward nodded, glancing around the living room. "Nice place," he said awkwardly a moment later. "Jemma's work?"

"Mine," Natasha replied sourly, looking as if she would be very happy to strip him to his skin and tie him to a chair, and not for anything particularly pleasant.

"Right," Ward replied, at a loss for words. Maria Hill's review of his people skills had never been more appropriate. "I'll just… wait right here, then."

Ward was out of place in this room, which for so long had been inhabited by only the four of them. More than that, his presence marked the definitive end of their idyll. There would be no more afternoons in the garden or cozy, familial dinners. There would certainly be fewer long nights tangled in the sheets with Jemma, unobservant and uncaring of the passing time. Their relationship would be under scrutiny, now, as the outside world invaded. He had missed his team- had become quite fond of them all, really, during his time on the Bus- but he had selected agents who would not be shy about offering their opinions, and he had no doubt that they would have some very strong opinions about his place in Jemma's bed.

And then there was Fitz.

Fuck.

* * *

Jemma wasn't entirely surprised when Clint appeared unexpectedly at her hiding spot. He was an excellent tracker; if anyone could have found her so quickly it would have been him. "Did May send Ward?" she asked him, sliding out into the open when he gestured. "He's safe?"

"As safe as someone who sleeps with Melinda May can be," he replied dryly, and nodded at her startled expression. "He has information for us, so I suppose we have a guest for the foreseeable future."

It was a shock to have her former life intrude so suddenly on her current one. It seemed that her happy winter had merely been the calm before the storm.

"Phil's going to try something self-sacrificing in the near future," Clint warned her as they hiked back. "Shut him down quickly when he starts talking about sleeping separately and all that shit."

She stopped in her tracks, feeling as if he had kicked her in the stomach. "Excuse me?"

He nodded for her to continue walking. "Now that Ward's shown up, the rest won't be far behind. You have no idea how much people gossiped about your team, back in the day."

She put the pieces together quickly, and suppressed an irritated growl. "Fitz."

"Exactly. The legendary Fitzsimmons. Love, science, babies, etcetera, etcetera."

"If Phil thinks I'm going to let him get away with that-"

"Might I recommend tying him to the bedposts until you convince him otherwise?" Clint interrupted with a cheeky grin, and she gave him an unamused stare. "No, I'm serious, that might be the only way you'll convince him. It will at least distract him."

"You need to stop thinking about our sex life," she replied with as much dignity as she could muster, a blush blooming on her cheeks.

"How could I not? It's like living with a Harlequin novel, though one of the early ones where all the interesting scenes faded to black." His look abruptly turned serious. "Please, for the love of God, convince him of your sincerity early. I hate it when he mopes."

The entire conversation was vexing. "I shouldn't have to convince him of my sincerity," she replied heatedly. "Does he think I've just been passing time? If I didn't want him I wouldn't be sharing a bed with him."

Clint couldn't stay serious for very long, which was as charming as it was annoying. "He knows, but he's a delicate flower. You're good with those, right?"

Jemma cast him an irritated glance, but decided that further banter would just put her in a worse mood. "Thank you for warning me." She ducked a hanging vine. "Any more advice?"

"Red lingerie."

Her blush had been fading, but it suddenly reappeared in full force. "Thank you. That's enough, I think."

"Are you sure? Because I have more thoughtful insights."

She gave him a light shove. "Save them for a rainy day, Sherlock."

* * *

Phil was relieved when Clint and Jemma finally appeared after a half hour of tense silence. It was obvious that Natasha had spent the entire time mentally dissecting Ward- for fun, as far as Phil could tell, because it helped her stay in practice- and though he was hiding it well, it was equally obvious that Ward found the experience unnerving.

As well he should. If Phil ever thought Natasha was thinking of him in that fashion he would give serious consideration to running away with Jemma in the middle of the night.

There was a rip in Jemma's skirt and a scratch on one arm, but she looked otherwise unharmed, though the look she gave him made him wonder what, exactly, he had done to deserve such censure.

The smile she gave Ward was congenial enough. "So sorry about that," she said, keeping well back from him. "You surprised me."

He looked somewhat sheepish. "Not my intention." His expression turned cautious, and whether it was because she had managed to overcome him physically or because he had learned something unpleasant about her was unclear.

"Go on," Phil said, taking a seat. Jemma sat near him on the couch, and the way Ward suddenly seemed to be tongue-tied was alarming. "Tell us what you know."

Ward hesitated for a moment longer, his gaze drifting back to Jemma. "Streiten contacted May," he began. "He's been off the grid for months, even longer than we have. Someone in sci-ops tipped him off shortly after you disappeared, and he managed to call in enough favors to get part of Simmons' medical file." The raw look on his face was an expression Phil had rarely seen from Ward; whatever had been in that file had genuinely distressed him. "It's your spinal fluid," he said, rubbing a hand over his face. "The virus settled in your spinal fluid."

Jemma stiffened beside him. "It's active?" she asked quietly.

"No. It's latent in you."

The ramifications of that statement settled heavily over the occupants of the room. Phil glanced at Jemma. Her breathing had turned shallow and rapid, and the pallor of her skin told him that she was mentally considering each and every interaction she had had with them and with random strangers over the past months. "Is it contagious?" she asked carefully, avoiding his gaze.

"No. It's-" Ward paused. "It's a super serum, basically."

Jemma relaxed slightly beside him, though only slightly. "When injected into others, you mean," she clarified.

"Exactly."

"And how do they know that?" Natasha asked quietly. "Who did they test it on?"

"Six junior operatives," Ward replied bitterly. "It doesn't take a lot, apparently."

Jemma stood slowly, her posture stiff and careful. "Excuse me," she said even as she reached for the doorknob, not waiting for a reply before she escaped into the garden.

"One of them died," Ward continued, staring at the now closed door. "One went mad. The other four are now on par with Steve Rogers." He turned back to them. "According to the tests they ran, there were trace amounts of the virus in other parts of her body, but it was at its most concentrated in the spinal fluid."

Phil exchanged a glance with Natasha and Clint, who both looked grim. The virus might not have made Jemma herself into a weapon, but knowing that weapons could be made from her had raised the stakes. SHIELD- or any other organization who might find out about this- would stop at nothing to obtain such a valuable asset, regardless of the long-term damage it would do it Jemma.

He had been clinging to the hope that they might stay in Lima a bit longer, but this new information left them with no other choice but to flee. They had already lingered too long in one place.

"Get ready to leave," Natasha said after a moment of silence. "You weren't followed?" she asked Ward, who shook his head in denial. "If you are lying I will rip your heart out," she informed him calmly, her expression perfectly sincere. "Tomorrow morning, then."

"Don't let her chain him to one of the portico columns," Phil murmured to Clint as Natasha swept out the front door, presumably leaving to gather various items that had been hidden in the jungle- cash, IDs, weapons. "Ward, take the couch," he said in a louder tone, glancing back at the younger man. "Clint will show you around."

Clint's expression bordered on dour, but he nodded as Phil slipped out the garden door.

He found Jemma bent over the oncidium, her fingertips brushing over the blossoms in the fading light. "We're leaving," she stated plainly without turning to look at him.

"Yes." He placed a hand on her back cautiously, and she took in a sudden breath. "In the morning."

She nodded and straightened. "There's nowhere for us to go," she said quietly, meeting his gaze. It was clear she was devastated, but was suppressing it as best she could. She glanced around the garden, her gaze landing last on the drosera in the center. "Years of study and dozens of scientific advancements, and my worth comes down to cerebrospinal fluid." Her tone was flat, almost unemotional. "I suppose SHIELD will always have brilliant scientists, but ones that generate super serum are a bit harder to come by."

She turned back to him suddenly. "Will you come to bed with me, Phil?" She grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the door. "Please."

He wasn't entirely sure he should, not with that look of desperation in her eyes.

"One more night in this house," she whispered, her gaze not leaving his. "Please." The desperation resolved into firmness, into certainty, and it was enough that he followed her into their bedroom and locked the door.

She pulled him to the bed, but he urged her toward the bathroom. "We need to put something on that scratch," he said, and she was nodded. She kept her silence while he tended to the wound and closed the shutters, and when he turned back toward her he found that she had dropped her blouse and skirt onto the floor and kicked off her shoes. She was wearing blue, like their first night, but her expression was radically different. It was bittersweet, now, though she stood with the same confidence, dusty feet and all.

She gave him a small smile as she unbuttoned his shirt. "What a lovely winter we had."

It had been a lovely winter, and a happy one. Jemma had never stinted with her affection in public, and had never been anything but open with him in bed, sharing her delight and pleasure with a generous hand. He could have mapped the abstract geography of her, if need be: the way she laughed with breathless joy when he surprised her, the taste of her skin, the smile she sometimes wore- wicked, teasing, and utterly enticing- that warned here be dragons.

She placed a hand against the scar on his chest, and the white jagged line extended an inch beyond her fingers. Her scars were less dramatic, though more plentiful, scattered without any seeming rhyme or reason across her body. He had spent a great deal of time acquainting himself with them over the winter, committing them to memory like his own personal constellations. Given the chance, Phil intended to demand satisfaction from SHIELD for each mark.

She had shivered, that first night, as he had kissed each scar one by one, and her expression after he had brushed his lips across the last- Natasha's scar, white and twisted on her shoulder- had been tender and vulnerable. He did the same now, finishing with the barely visible mark on her spine which could only be the remnant of a lumbar puncture. She made a soft, quiet noise at that point, somewhere between a sigh and a sob.

"What do you want?" he asked softly, wrapping his arms around her from behind, ready to accede to any whim.

She smiled again, and shrugged. "Just love me," she replied, and didn't say much after that, allowing her hands and lips to express what she could not speak aloud. She clung to him in bed, permitting as little space between them as possible until he finally fell against her, exhausted, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

"Do you think we could have been happy as ordinary people?" she whispered in the dark a few minutes later, her hands stroking his back, with the same tone of voice she might have used for a perplexing scientific problem. "With a mortgage and leaky faucets and-"

She faltered slightly before forging ahead. "And several unruly dogs."

He had once thought about leaving SHIELD for an ordinary life, back when he had been dating his cellist and had not yet had his heart quite literally split in two. He had liked Portland, and he had loved Grace. The idea of a white picket fence and a cozy house with her had been appealing, though the secrets he had been forced to keep had already become a strain on their relationship. There were things he never could have told her, even if he had left the agency, and in retrospect he wondered if he had been on a path that would inevitably have led to a painful divorce.

There were no secrets with Jemma, and he had no desire to keep any from her. She knew everything he knew, now, even the information that had been above her status as a Level 5 agent. He had told her about Tahiti, and the stories of the Avengers' more amusing escapades before New York had strewn them all to the four corners of the earth. He had even told her what little he knew regarding Skye's mysterious heritage. His trust in her was absolute in a way he never could have fathomed, and she repaid the favor tenfold.

Their life was hardly ordinary, but given the choice he would have stayed here with her and whatever ordinariness two ex-SHIELD agents might have managed.

He rolled onto his side, pulling her with him. "The dogs would have only dug up your flower beds," he said quietly, knowing very well that she had been thinking of something quite different than a pack of canines, and had simply been unable to say the word.

She nodded, shifting so that she was tucked more firmly against him. "I know."

* * *

In the morning, Jemma showered and dressed, and packed a small bag of her belongings. She made a point of not looking too carefully around the room, though her first memories haunted her: running her fingers over dusty mahogany as she had gathered the courage to speak; that first tender kiss with Phil in the sunlight. Her moment of bravery had been the precursor to so many happy nights, and those months had been a gift. Now they were over, and she was lucky to be leaving here with Phil beside her.

She looked neither left nor right as she walked through the courtyard, but simply stared straight ahead. Perhaps the next owners would appreciate the work she had done, assuming that SHIELD didn't get here before then and burn the whole house down out of spite.

Natasha detained her in the otherwise empty kitchen, her eyes dark and grave. "It's not over yet," she said simply, and Jemma nodded. It wasn't over yet, but it might as well be.

"I need you to make me a promise," she said, and Natasha waited quietly beside her. "If the worst happens, I need you to kill me. I can't-"

She broke off, unable to continue.

"You can't ask Phil to do it," Natasha finished for her, and nodded. "It would be an honor."

And strangely, Jemma was certain that Natasha meant it. She would be quick and careful; there wouldn't be any pain. There could be no more merciful executioner. "I'm sorry if it gets you in trouble with Phil."

Natasha shrugged. "It would be more cruel to allow you to fall back into their control. He would understand, someday."

He would, but he might do something regrettable before then. It was selfish of Jemma to ask this of a woman who had become a friend, but the thought of landing back in a cell, where they would carefully harvest vital fluid from her for as long as possible as if they were milking venom from a snake, chilled her to the bone. "Thank you."

"Not over yet," Natasha repeated firmly, and turned. She paused before leaving the room and glanced around, a wistful expression crossing her face so quickly that Jemma was unsure if it had ever been there at all. "It is a lovely house," was all she said, and left.

Leaving was both more and less difficult than she had thought. It was easy enough to walk out the door with her bag, to seat herself between Natasha and Phil in the car, to wait patiently as Clint started the engine. It was not turning back for one last look that proved the hardest part, and like Lot's wife she found herself glancing back at the last moment, as the house disappeared in the distance.

She tried not to cry, and was at least successful in not being very loud when she finally succumbed and hid her face behind one of Phil's handkerchiefs. He draped his arm around her shoulders, and for once it felt like less of an anchor and more like a weight pinning her into place. Nonetheless she leaned into him, trying not to think of cattleya and mahogany as they drove away from Lima, heading south to Chile.


	13. Sambucus canadensis

_Ringelringelreihen,_  
_Wir sind der Kinder dreien,_  
_sitzen unter'm Hollerbusch,_  
_Und machen alle Huschhuschhusch!_

_Ringed, ringed row._  
_We are three children,_  
_sitting under an elder bush._  
_All of us going hush, hush, hush!_  
-_Ringel, Ringel, Reihe_

Jemma was quiet that day, and if it weren't for the fact that he could tell she was absolutely alert to her surroundings it would have been uncannily like their early days on the run. After she finished crying she had blown her nose and wiped the tears from her face with the remaining dry corner of the handkerchief, and had not shed a tear since. She answered questions when they were explicitly directed at her, and occasionally fiddled with her rings, but otherwise sat as still as a stone.

It wasn't until she was lying chastely against him in the dark that night that she began to speak. "Does it make you uncomfortable?" she asked in an uneasy whisper, her fingers twisting in the material of his shirt. "Knowing what I am?"

"No," he replied honestly. If anything, the new information only strengthened his determination to guard her, in whatever fashion she would let him. A spine was so vulnerable to injury, in so many ways. He had been taught a number of methods that could be used to paralyze and disarm with a well-placed blow to a vertebra, and the knowledge rested uneasily alongside his memories of the seemingly delicate expanse of Jemma's bare back. That she was now a living, breathing source of super serum had surprisingly little impact on him personally. It was part of her, and hers to keep.

"I knew I was endangering you," she continued, sounding deeply unhappy. "I hadn't realized quite how much."

"It was my choice to extract you," he reminded her. "When I made that choice I also accepted every unknown factor that might come with it."

"I doubt you could have foreseen this."

He placed his hand on hers, still clenched in his shirt. "No," he admitted, his voice gentling as he stroked her fingers. "I never expected this." He had never thought he would come to learn the texture and weight of her hair, how soft her skin was in the hollow of her throat, or that she loved the novels of Thomas Harris. "And you're hardly the only person in this bed with an unusual medical history."

"Your poor heart," she murmured, brushing her lips against the underside of his chin. "I love it so."

"Then if you can accept my medical miracle, have faith that I accept yours." He moved so that his face was inches from her own, though he could barely see her amidst the shadows. "If it makes you feel any better, I can assure you that you are definitely not a Cylon."

She chuckled, though it sounded forced. "I didn't realize you were paying attention to our marathon."

"How could I not? Skye threw a shoe at the screen and dented it." The paperwork to replace the television had been ungodly, almost as bad as the paperwork he had endured after the Moroccan office fished Ward and Jemma out of the ocean. The latter episode haunted him even more now than it had at the time; he could still clearly remember watching the security feed of her jump after the fact and cursing in his empty office.

He might have temporarily distracted her, but she would not be so easily dissuaded from her worry. "You would be safer if you left me," she persisted.

Phil had to fight against the instinct to tighten his hold on her. He wasn't surprised that she had come to this conclusion, and recognized that if the tables were turned, he most likely would have snuck away in the middle of the night in order to draw attention away from everyone else. He had no desire to deny Jemma her autonomy, even when their circumstances were as precarious as they were, but at the same time he was hardly going to let her walk away.

There was no diplomatic way to tell her that he was a hypocrite who had no intention of letting her out of his sight, so he went with the next best thing.

"No," he replied firmly. "But if you prefer, I will wake Natasha up and change rooms with her."

"I'm not rejecting you, Phil, but-"

"_No._"

There were many things he would do for her, but in this he would not be swayed. "I can't leave you behind, Jemma. I will share a room with Clint or, God help me, Ward if need be, but we're not going to leave you on your own in the middle of South America." He stroked her hand again, his fingers pausing when he reached her rings. "Besides, till death do us part is the traditional promise, I believe."

She was silent for a moment. "We were never actually married, Phil." There was a small catch in her voice as she said the words.

"As good as," he replied softly. "If there was any way to make it legally binding without risking our lives, I would do it."

"Oh." After a moment she moved closer, pressing her forehead against his own. "I thought- I was worried you wouldn't want the team to know." She took in a breath. "I don't want to be separated from you."

He kissed her lightly. "Then stay with me."

She relaxed slightly, but she was still tense. "You won't try and throw me at Fitz?"

"Only if I thought you _wanted_ Fitz." Not that he would have actually done anything to help Fitz into her bed. Probably would have made it damn difficult for Fitz to get within fifty feet of her bedroom door, if at all possible.

There had been a time when he would not have been so bold with her in this, when he would have erred on the side of caution and given her too much space to consider her options. That in itself would have been an error, because if he had learned anything about Jemma Simmons over the past months, it was that she didn't need him to second-guess her. She knew what she wanted, and if she wanted him then he fully intended to let her claim him.

"Well, I don't." Her fingers were now lifting the hem of his shirt, and he sat up to make it easier for her. "I won't go back to calling you Sir and having you call me Simmons and-"

She stuttered to a stop, his shirt in her hands. "I can't be your junior agent again," she said, sounding as if she were on the verge of tears. "Even if all of our problems were solved tomorrow, I couldn't work for SHIELD again."

It was a relief to hear her say the words. "Neither could I," he admitted quietly as he sat beside her in the dark. "Though I'm afraid we would have a hell of a time claiming our pensions."

Her laughter sounded almost strangled, but it was genuine enough. She tossed his shirt toward the foot of the bed before pulling off her own, and then settled against him, apparently less interested in sex than in the comfort of skin against skin.

"We could always work for Tony Stark," she murmured after a few minutes, and he winced instinctively.

"Only if we consult with half a planet between us," he replied, trying not to shudder at the thought. Stark would appear at their door at any hour of the day; distance was no hindrance to that man. "He's a menace, Jemma."

"A menace who doesn't have a vested interest in playing nice with SHIELD, and who would spend an unholy amount of money building me a lab." She sounded downright lustful as she said the last part, and he at least took comfort in the fact that her interest in Stark came down to good old-fashioned greed. Thank God Pepper had finally managed to pin Stark down. Jemma would have been just his type, otherwise.

She obviously sensed his unhappiness with the topic, because she sat up and leaned over him, her hair brushing against his face. "He might be able to protect us," she murmured, placing a hand on his chest. "We won't be able to hide forever."

She was right, but entering into Stark's protection would mean locking themselves in safe-holds of concrete and steel. Tony would mean well- and he was certainly foolhardy enough to go up against SHIELD by himself- but the best protection he could offer them would be a palatial, well-guarded prison. They might one day need that kind of sanctuary, but Phil had no desire to hide Jemma away from the sun until they were completely out of other options.

"The only garden he could offer you would involve grow lamps," he replied softly, lifting one hand to cup her cheek. "I didn't rescue you from the underworld only to drag you back."

He could faintly see her shrug. "I'm hardly the Persephone to your Hades," she said unexpectedly, and laid back down. "Though I would eat any number of pomegranates for you."

She might say that now, but in a year? In five years? "I wouldn't want you to resent me, Jemma."

"You might be the one resenting me," she pointed out. "As a last resort, then."

She grew silent, her breathing gradually deepening as she fell asleep. He was so caught up in his thoughts he didn't expect to do more than doze, but at some point he slipped under. He was awoken several hours later by the way she trembled in his arms. "Jemma?"

She sucked in a jagged breath. "Same as ever," she whispered. She sat up and pushed her hair back from her face, her body a bare outline in the dim room. "I'm so glad we had those months," she said a moment later, her voice quiet and solemn. "They were so beautiful."

She spoke as if she didn't believe they could ever find such happiness again; as if their second exodus was over when it had barely begun. "When this is all over, we're going back to Lima," he said, his hand caressing the length of her spine gently. It was an empty promise and they both knew it; not because he was unwilling to take her back, but because the odds of Lima ever being safe again were astronomically low. The house there would be a dream they carried for the rest of their lives, however long those lives might happen to be.

Perhaps, though, it was better that they had left before the limitations of their life in Lima could fully reveal themselves. There had only been a semblance of safety there, which had been easier to ignore when they had been secluded and sheltered above the valley. Even with four adults living within those walls, the house had been too big. If they had stayed in Lima long enough those empty rooms might have come to represent the absence of something else.

That Jemma wanted children was obvious, for all that she avoided the subject. What surprised him was how appealing the idea was, personally. He had long ago given up any hope of children, but he almost longed to start a family with her, and that longing was painful in its impossibility.

When he did sleep again- long after Jemma had fallen back asleep, curled into a tight ball beside him- he dreamed not of Tahiti, but of a teenage girl with Jemma's face and his eyes, who gave him a long-suffering look when he asked if she knew the story of how he had met her mother.

"In a lab," this dream daughter said in a patient, bored tone. "She was dissecting a monkey, and you immediately fell in love with her and ran off to Zimbabwe, where you had five children and never, ever met an Asgardian with a spear again."

"That's not exactly what happened," he told her, and she shrugged.

"I'm cutting out all the boring bits. Can I borrow the car?"

In some ways, it was a far worse dream than Tahiti had ever been.

* * *

When Jemma woke she was alone in the bed, the sound of running water the only indicator that Phil was still nearby. She sat up, laughing quietly when she realized that she was still wearing her pajama bottoms and nothing else. Her shirt and his were crumpled at the foot of the bed, a small slice of beloved domesticity in an otherwise uninspiring room.

She stripped off the remainder of her clothing and padded into the bathroom, where she joined him in the shower. "So," she began, warmed by his appreciative look. "What might we see in Chile?" She ducked under the spray and held her hand out in a silent request for the shampoo, which he handed to her after a moment, looking distracted.

"The last vitis vinifera on its original rootstock," he replied, and she pretended not to notice the way his eyes were fixed on her breasts. "The architecture of Valparaiso. The latest and greatest internet memes as curated by Skye."

"She's going to be very curious." The sheer intensity of her gaze pulled him away from his study. "They all are." She was aware that she probably looked ridiculous, with her hair covered in shampoo suds and lying limp on her shoulders, but it was one thing to say the things they had said in the dark of night, and another to face them by day. "I was quite serious last night. I don't want to sneak around."

"Good." He stepped closer, his hands curving around her hips. "It would be very inconvenient." He smiled, and it was the kind of smile that invariably made her weak at the knees. "I've gotten used to the ring."

"I'm not sure it's the ring you've gotten used to," she replied impishly, the last of her worry falling away, and let him nudge her back against the wall. "There are many other benefits to marriage, I've found."

He cupped one hand behind her head, protection against the hard tile. She liked this particular expression of his a great deal: focused, tender, and devoted. She had never seen anything like this on his face before Lima- except, perhaps, when he had looked at Lola, but there was so great a difference between the look he gave her and the look he had given his car that she really didn't care.

"Do I make you happy, Jemma?" he asked, sliding his other arm around her waist. "Not just in the obvious way, I mean."

She pressed herself against him and looped her arms around his neck. "Very happy," she said softly, and kissed his chin. "There will be other gardens, but there is only one Phil."

"We assume," he said with a slow smile. "For all we know SHIELD has started a cloning program."

"Hmm." She kissed one of his dimples, then the other. "I like this model. I'm very satisfied with it."

He kissed her slowly and thoroughly before pulling away with a small sigh. "We're wasting water," he murmured in her ear, and pulled her away from the wall, wiping the dripping soap suds away from her eyes. "And we're almost out of time. Finish up."

She could barely stand, but she moved to rinse out her hair. "You are very good at that."

He gave her that bland, knowing smile that had been Agent Coulson's trademark expression. "At what?"

She blushed. "At being absolutely distracting."

He stepped out of the stall and wrapped a towel around his waist. "In all fairness, Jemma, you distracted me first."

* * *

Apparently Clint's theme of the day was 'Spring Break South of the Border', or something along those lines, because the lyrics all seemed to revolve around margaritas, surf and sun. They were all terrible, but Phil expected nothing less from Clint.

In any case, watching Ward take in the spectacle was almost worth the aural assault. Doubtless he had made the mistake of assuming that the infamous Clint Barton was actually somewhat serious.

He was silent as the others chatted casually, the lone wolf once more. His reticence could be partially attributed to the fact that he was very much the outsider amidst their little foursome, but the way he carefully avoided making contact with Jemma- a difficult proposition, seeing as he had taken Natasha's seat from the previous day, and it was a relatively small car- made Phil wonder exactly how explicit Jemma's medical file had been.

Ward was not the only person who was carefully maintaining boundaries. Jemma was also doing her best to avoid contact with Ward, and it was not entirely due to his obvious discomfort. After months of training with Clint and Natasha, she was perfectly comfortable making casual contact with the both of them, but she still avoided meeting the hands of strangers. Even walking down a busy street made her nervous, though Phil doubted anyone who wasn't a trained observer would notice. Her reaction to their close quarters was to crowd up against Phil, leaving a hard-won inch of space between herself and Ward.

She glanced up and caught Phil's gaze, and the smile she gave him was warm and offset by a slight blush. Taking his hand, she began to stroke his palm with her fingertips. She had started doing it a few months beforehand, one lazy morning in bed, and it hadn't taken her long to realize that it was an excellent way to soothe him- or to put him to sleep, when his guard was sufficiently low. She had been using it as a weapon against him ever since, though he did not believe that she actually thought of it in those terms. It was obvious that she liked taking care of him, in a myriad of different ways, and she always looked so pleased every time she found a new way to put him at ease.

He closed his hand gently over hers, brushing a kiss against her hairline. He couldn't afford to let her put him to sleep at the moment, and if she continued that was the most likely outcome, given his restless sleep the night before.

He didn't have to glance over at Ward to know that he was watching the way they interacted very closely. There was too much familiarity in the way they touched each other for him to misidentify their current relationship, and what Ward thought of it Phil could only guess.

He did not have long to wait. It was after they had stopped for lunch that the inevitable conversation took place, as they waited by the car for the others to rejoin them. Phil knew that he would have to undergo this same conversation with each member of his team at some point, and he wasn't particularly looking forward to the experience.

At least Skye was likely to find the whole thing adorable and not regard him as if he was some sort of criminal (Fitz) or sad middle-aged man in the grasp of an afterlife crisis (May). Skye was probably going to get along very well with Clint. Too well, most likely, and he resisted the urge to flinch at the thought of the kind of headaches the two were going to give him in the near future.

"It's a cover, right?" Ward asked him, in that tone of voice that told Phil he was out of his depth and pretending to be otherwise. "You and Simmons."

Phil gave him a flat stare. "She's my wife, Ward." He had, in the past, called _Rosemary_ his wife in public, for the sake of their cover, but he had only ever used the word 'wife' in conjunction with Jemma in the privacy of their bedroom. He hid his pleasure at the word now; Ward would only misread that particular emotion.

"But that's just a cover," he replied immediately, then paused. "You're really having- with _Simmons?_"

Phil sighed. "You still can't say the word?"

Ward still seemed too deep in shock to properly reply, and there was unease in his expression. "Simmons?"

"It's a very short word. I know for a fact that you know longer ones." Phil pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why does this worry you, Ward? Because you think I took advantage of her?"

Ward's immediate and honest denial was a small relief, anyway. "It's just that Fitz misses her."

Phil wasn't surprised. "That's his problem," he replied. "He had his chance."

Jemma stepped out the door with Natasha and Clint, still far away enough that she wouldn't be able to hear their conversation. Ward was studying her, as if perplexed, and perhaps he was right to be. There was the age difference to consider, and it was certainly true that Jemma was different than she had been when Ward had last known her. Perhaps on the Bus- when she had been buttoned up and prim, her hair ruthlessly constrained as often as not- she might have seemed a better fit for the Agent Coulson Ward was familiar with.

Phil might still look the same to Ward's eyes, but Jemma- Jemma had blossomed. Her new confidence, when combined with the tumbling waves of her hair and Natasha's carefully picked wardrobe, made her into the kind of woman Phil would have once considered above his touch. He couldn't quite blame Ward for his surprise, and seeing as Phil did spend a good deal of time touching Jemma and more, he figured he could afford to be generous.

Then again, Ward seemed to be spending an uncomfortable amount of time watching the sway of Jemma's hips as she walked toward them, which Phil found quite annoying. Just because Jemma had never walked that way on the Bus was no reason for Ward to pay any attention to it.

"Ready?" Natasha asked, coolly assessing the two of them as she approached. After a moment she turned and directed Jemma toward the front passenger seat. "Phil, why don't you drive for a while and spare us another acoustic rendition of Margaritaville?"

She gave Phil a mild glare, which he figured was her way of telling him to get over his alpha male bullshit and get on with things, and she was undoubtedly right. That didn't mean he didn't take a small bit of pleasure in the wary look Ward gave Natasha, especially when she claimed the middle seat as her own. Unlike Jemma, Natasha had no problem with taking up her duly allotted space, and didn't particularly care how anyone else felt about it.

"So," Clint said as soon as they were back on the road. He leaned forward between the front seats and poked Phil on the shoulder. "Are we there yet?"

Jemma stifled a giggle beside him, but surprisingly turned and gave Clint a firm push. "Sit back down before he makes you walk to Chile," she said, and from the corner of his eye he could see her shaking a finger at Clint in what appeared to be an imitation of Phil's own usual method of scolding annoying underlings.

She settled herself back into her seat, looking pleased, and for the first time in Phil's memory blessed silence reigned.

It would have been better if Hotel California wasn't still playing on loop in his head.

* * *

This hotel room was no more inspiring than the last, but it was a relief to be alone with Phil again, away from Ward's assessing gaze. That he watched her so closely- so warily- was bad enough, but as the afternoon had worn on Natasha and even Clint had begun to regard Ward with thinly veiled hostility. Sitting with her back to such a potentially explosive situation had not been comfortable.

Phil let her pull him down so that his head was resting on her lap, half-closing his eyes as she lost herself in the repetitive sweep of her fingertips on the well-known contours of his face. He looked as tense as she felt, but after a few minutes he sighed quietly, his expression beginning to ease into something close to peace.

She was interrupted by a knock on the door, and Natasha quietly asking for entrance. Jemma didn't particularly want to speak with anyone else at that moment, and found herself feeling mildly irritated when Phil sat up without a word and let Natasha in.

The other woman stepped inside and shut the door after her, an envelope in her hands. "I need your rings and ID," she said bluntly, and the impact of her words was enough to make Jemma forget her irritation in a flood of sudden panic. "Just in case our original identities were compromised. Here."

"The car is registered to my current identity," Phil said in a mild tone, accepting the envelope from Natasha. He opened it and pulled out a handful of documents and passports, as well as another, smaller envelope.

"We'll be switching vehicles in the morning. We can't cross the border together this time; we'll be going ahead of you with Ward." She held out her hand to Jemma. "Those rings are too distinctive, Jemma. We need to trade them for different ones."

It was a relief that Natasha had no intention of separating her from Phil, though Jemma was reluctant to remove the rings she currently wore. She had been wearing them for nearly a year, and while they had been intended for Rosemary Phillips, she had grown very attached to them.

"I'll save them for you," Natasha said quietly. "Phil's too."

Jemma dropped the rings into Natasha's hand with no further hesitation, though she did feel a sharp pang of longing. Her hand felt naked without the gold and sapphires, and it was odd to see Phil without his ring.

He offered her the smaller envelope with a commiserating smile. The rings she spilled into her lap were platinum, and one band held a single solitaire diamond. They were elegant- classic, even- and yet somehow seemed cold. Her new passport was for a Mary Elizabeth Williams. "I'm going to need to change my hair," she said with a sigh. She had been enjoying going without the bother of straightening her hair every morning, but the photo Natasha had used made her look sharp, perhaps even frigid. She would have to change her wardrobe, too, which was even more of a pity. She enjoyed how flattering her current wardrobe was, and equally enjoyed Phil's reaction to it.

Natasha nodded an affirmative, her hand on the doorknob. "We leave at eight."

Once they were alone Jemma offered Phil his new ring. Though the platinum band was inoffensive, the gold had been a friendlier contrast to his skin. She held out her own hand and gave the effect a considering look. "I don't like them," she said after a moment, "though I understand the necessity."

He sat beside her and took her hand, kissing the skin around the rings. "You look better in gold," he said quietly, turning her hand to kiss the inside of her wrist.

"And what's your new name, husband?" she asked as he moved up her arm to kiss the crook of her elbow.

"Kevin Robert Williams." He lifted his head long enough to give her a wry glance. "Kevin."

"I'm not sure you make a very convincing Kevin," she agreed. "And I'm having doubts about their marriage."

He laughed softly, and busied himself with unzipping the back of her dress. "Is it on the rocks, darling?"

"I think Mary Elizabeth is a gold-digger." She stood to let the dress fall over her hips onto the floor, and immediately picked it up and laid it over the back of a nearby chair. "I'm sorry if this breaks Kevin's heart."

"No," Phil replied calmly, though he still looked amused. "Kevin just wanted a trophy wife. Theirs is a very civil, business-like exchange in many ways."

"Is it civil?" she asked, raising a brow.

"Very," he assured her, and snagged her by the waist when she took a step toward him. "And while I respect their dedication to civility, I must insist that Mary Elizabeth and Kevin stay out of our bedroom."

"Good." She sat on his lap and nuzzled his neck. "I don't think she's very interesting in bed, anyway. Certainly her taste in lingerie is nowhere near as good as mine." She paused and smiled. "Or Natasha's, I should say."

"Either way, I've certainly benefited from that shopping trip in Manaus," he said, his admiration of her black lace evident. "Let me take a closer look, wife."

She shivered when he nipped the curve of one breast before smoothing over the mark with his tongue. "You always were very thorough," she commented breathlessly. "I suppose it will take you awhile."

"Probably." He tipped her back onto the bedspread. "Lie back and think of England, love," he said with a slow smile, and proceeded to render her speechless.


	14. Cicer arietinum

_and gold chickpeas were growing on the banks._  
-Sappho (Carson)

Phil enjoyed watching Jemma dress in the morning. The act was almost as erotic as undressing her at the end of the day, and there was a certain spice to knowing her various layers of clothing, anticipating the moment when he could strip her back to bare skin.

It was odd watching her dress this morning, with her new alias and new rings. Her outfit almost looked like the disguise it was, at least to him, though it was the closest she had come to Agent Simmons since the day she had left the Bus. She had ransacked her limited wardrobe, pairing a fitted cardigan with tailored slacks and flats and pulling her hair back into a tidy french braid. She caught his watchful gaze in the mirror and turned, leaning back against the counter.

"Not as flattering, I know," she said, brushing a nearly invisible crease from the cardigan. "Perhaps my next alias could be a bit more adventurous."

His wardrobe had never changed as much as hers; there was a smaller sartorial range expected of a man of his age, even one with a younger wife. Demeanor was more important than clothing, for him, and he wasn't looking forward to the tense, diplomatic show they would have to put on in public. The Phillipses had been easier to pull off, in many ways.

In private, at least, they would have some relief from their public role, though even that would be different once they made it back to the team. It was one thing to not want to sneak around, it was another to continue in their normal pattern. They had grown used to touching each other when they pleased and exchanging a fond kiss when they met in passing. They would have to determine for themselves new boundaries, lest they alienate the others.

There was an odd glint in her eyes, and she unexpectedly came over and seated herself on his lap, her smile turning just a bit wicked. "Did you ever wonder about me, back on the Bus?" she asked in a murmur, running her fingertips lightly down his chest. "Did you ever ask yourself what Simmons wore under her jumpers?"

He hadn't then, but he certainly did now. Could he have pursued her, on the Bus? The anti-fraternization regulations were only as binding as the person enforcing them, and he had had no trouble letting them slide for Ward and May. As long as the relationship in question didn't interfere with the team bond or the job at hand, he had never really cared what consenting adults did behind closed doors.

Perhaps he could have pursued her, once he had gotten past his afterlife crisis- assuming he ever would have gotten past it by himself. Jemma's situation had been too dire to let himself be distracted by the mysteries of his resurrection, and now he found that he no longer cared quite as much as he used to about Tahiti. He still had his nightmares, but his focus had shifted in the past months. They had enough shadows to jump at without him seeking out any more.

He might have courted her, in this alternate life, once he had grown more settled in mind and spirit. She had always been a soothing, gentle presence, and he could have found peace in that more innocent Jemma, provided he was able to lure her away from Fitz.

The only Jemma that counted was waiting for an answer, and he gave her the truth. "No," he answered honestly, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her closer. "But I thought you were very pretty." And very young.

Her wicked smile faded away, replaced by the sweet sadness he saw too often on her face. "What a good man you are," she said, kissing him lightly. "Though I must say, I really did like your hands." A spark of mischief returned. "Not as much as I do now, of course."

"Of course not," he murmured, pulling her in for a deeper kiss, careful not to muss her hair. "Some things have to be experienced."

She hummed wordlessly, sounding pleased, and relaxed against his chest, tucking her head into the crook of his neck. "Perhaps one day we could try some role-play."

She was going to be the death of him, he could tell. "Would I have to call you Simmons?"

He could feel the quirk of her lips against his neck, and thought she might be smirking. "You can call me Jemma. I only insist on calling you Sir."

With that ringing in his ears, he could only think that he had dodged a bullet by _not_ pursuing her on the Bus. She was the greatest threat to his composure he had ever faced, and judging by the way she shifted her hips oh-so-innocently, she knew it.

"Were you always like this?" he asked in a carefully modulated voice, hoping the strain wasn't too evident.

"No." She dropped a kiss on his nose, looking absolutely delighted with herself. "I just don't want you to get bored. It's all part of my long-term research."

Of course it was. "I hope you will at least publish it posthumously."

She nodded in total agreement. "Why would I publish it while you were still living? Someone would only try to steal you away from me."

A patch of pinkened skin peeked out from beneath the neckline of her cardigan, a remnant of the slight whisker-burn his scruff had given her the night before. He pulled the edge of her cardigan an inch back and kissed the spot, holding tightly onto her waist as she squirmed.

"Foul play," she said with a breathless laugh.

"Minx," he replied fondly, kissing the spot again.

The knock on the door was an unpleasant reminder that there was a schedule to be kept, regardless of their preferences. He occupied himself by gathering the last of their things while Jemma checked through the peephole before opening the door to Clint, who glanced over her ensemble and smiled. "Hello, Marian the Librarian." He had the gall to reach out and tuck a loosened strand of hair behind Jemma's ear, flicking a too innocent glance at Phil, who merely glowered in return. "I see Harold Hill has already given his approval of your attire."

Jemma batted his hand away and grabbed her bag. "How cheeky you are."

"I'm afraid so," Clint agreed, reaching out to take her bag before abruptly changing his mind. "On second thought, let Phil do that," he said, quickly turning away and heading toward the car.

Jemma looked up at him as he shouldered her bag, her hands straightening the rumpled hem of her sweater. "Are you ready?" she asked softly.

He deliberately untucked the same strand of hair, letting it curve against her cheek. She raised a brow, but her expression was indulgent, nonetheless.

Phil gave her one last kiss while they were still in the relative privacy of their room, sheltered behind the open door. "Now I am," he said, stroking his hand down her back in the last seconds before they stepped out the door into the sunlight.

* * *

They parted ways with the others around ten in the morning, and Jemma settled with relief into the front passenger seat of the new car. "How long until we cross the border?"

"About an hour." His hand dropped onto her knee. "Are you ready, Mrs. Williams?"

She gave him her coldest look even as she laid her hand on his. "Quite ready, Mr. Williams." She shook her head ruefully. "Its a pity I was never able to get rid of this accent." She had learned to smooth it out, somewhat, but she would never be mistaken for American.

"I'm very fond of your accent," he replied mildly. "And you're hardly the only British woman wandering around South America." As he spoke, his own accent shifted into a fair approximation of a Northumbrian inflection. "And my passport clearly states that I was born in the north of England."

There was a hint of a uvular R in his intonation, giving his voice a trace of the Northumbrian burr that was growing increasingly uncommon in the north. She doubted anyone other than a native of the region would notice; she only took note because of her Northumbrian grandfather. "Your dialect coach was of the old school," she teased. "Not much for the alveolar approximant, was he?"

"No, she was not," he replied, sounding amused. "Maisie Mills was eighty when I first met her, and she used to smack my hand with a ruler when I mispronounced something."

"I didn't realize they used corporal punishment at the operatives' academy." She patted his hand. "Poor Phil."

"Maisie was the exception," he informed her dryly. "She was the Romanov of her time, and was given a great deal of leeway as a result. I once saw her give Fury a lecture so scathing that he looked like a Medieval penitent when she was through."

The image made her smile, though she supposed she shouldn't take as much glee in it as she did. "I wish could have been a fly on the wall for that particular dressing-down."

He smiled slightly. "I happen to know a number of stories in which Fury comes off the worse," he offered. His thumb began to stroke the indent on the side of her knee, and after a moment his hand crept slightly higher on her leg. "Perhaps you'd like to hear a few."

"I would," she said, stroking her fingers gently against the back of his hand. "In any case, you have rather a captive audience," she continued with a grin.

It turned out that he knew more than a few embarrassing stories about Fury, and she was in a very good mood by the time they neared the border. It was only then that his tone turned serious as he abruptly shifted the topic of conversation.

"There's a train station just across the border, in Arica. We could catch the next train to Bolivia and be there before sunset," he said. "It would be one of our last chances to break away from the team, if you want to take it."

She stared at him, confused. "Do you want to?" She had no doubt that Phil could arrange for any future aliases, and in some ways it would be easier to hide as a pair rather than as a foursome, but she had grown very fond of Clint and Natasha. "Would it be safer?"

"I discussed it with Natasha and Clint," he said after a moment of hesitation. "The way Ward acts around you is… odd. As much as I hate to admit it, he could be leading us into a trap."

She kept her silence for a few precious minutes, considering his words. Their situation was too precarious for them to be burning their bridges unless absolutely necessary, but his observations were sound. "I don't like the way he watches me," she admitted, turning her face to look out the passenger window. "I think he might actually be scared of me." She glanced back and gave him a weak smile. "Grant Ward afraid of Jemma Simmons. I never thought I would see the day."

"Assuming that's all it is. It might not be so simple," he responded, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. "Though it could just be that his experience with the Berserker staff has made him warier of all things alien than he once was."

"Understandable," she murmured. "But we don't know for a fact that he's told us everything he knows about me." The back of her neck itched in some kind of psychosomatic induced response. "Maybe the serum isn't the worst of it."

She could see that Phil had already been considering this possibility, and that it disturbed him more than he had previously let on. "Maybe," he admitted. "But I do think it is important to remember that you aren't contagious."

"We don't know that for a fact," she said instantly, sitting up straighter in her seat. "For all we know I'm the Chitauri version of Typhoid Mary."

"If you're spreading anything, it certainly isn't the virus. If that were the case, we would know by now." He glanced away from the road long enough to give her a warm smile. "I'm still in perfect health, as far as we know, and if you were going to infect anyone, it would be me."

She blushed despite her worry. He was certainly correct in that aspect.

"You haven't demonstrated superhuman strength, or the ability to read minds, or anything untoward," he continued. "The only thing unusual about you is that you find me sexually attractive."

She slapped him lightly on the arm. "And why shouldn't I? You're handsome and fit, and you have a lovely sense of humor. You're also very intelligent."

"But hardly young, Jemma."

He was infuriating, at times. "You're just fishing for compliments, now." They passed a sign notifying them that the border was five kilometers away. She raised a brow, suspicious. "Are you really so dismissive of your own attractiveness, or are you just trying to get me into a snit for the border guards?"

He gave her an almost unreadable smile. "Is it working?"

She laughed despite her annoyance. "Yes, you terrible man." She paused, a wicked idea coming to mind. "I still can't believe my father sold me to you to pay off his debts."

"_What?_"

Jemma studied her nails, not bothering to hide her smirk. "I told him gambling would destroy our family, but no, he had to play that last hand."

"I thought Mary Elizabeth was a gold-digger," he replied in a choked voice, looking simultaneously appalled and amused. "Now you're telling me Kevin won her in a hand of poker?"

"Baccarat. It was either me or the family estate, but since the walls of the castle were crumbling around our ears, I suppose you made the better choice."

He pulled the car off of the main road and parked at an opportune rest stop, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. "Jemma-"

"Too far?" she asked him in seeming innocence.

"Much too far."

"Ahh." She gave a small sigh. "I hadn't even gotten to the part about your many prostitutes."

"Of course there would be prostitutes," he said, hands against his face. "It's your trademark."

"Hardly!" She grinned, stroking a finger down the arm closest to her. "Jonathan Phillips had no need of prostitutes, I assure you."

"Lucky Jonathan." His expression, when he finally looked at her, was infused with mirth. "From now on, please save your stories until after border crossings. It's going to take me a while to regain my composure."

"Very well." She waited for him to stop laughing, taking joy in the sound. If there was one thing she loved, it was seeing Phil Coulson utterly undone.

"Well," she said when he was more himself. "What do you think? Chile or Bolivia?" She trusted his instincts in this, with good reason. She had only received a crash-course in being an operative, albeit a thorough one; he had lived the life for several decades. It was apparent that Clint and Natasha had also given him their blessing to disappear if need be, and that in itself told Jemma a great deal.

Phil sobered and took her hand. "I want to believe that May and the others are trustworthy."

"You don't think Ward could be operating on his own, or with SHIELD?" she asked. These weren't questions she wanted to consider, but she had reached the point where practically every choice had to be examined from each angle, and then re-examined once more. "Do we know for a fact that he is still working with May?"

"The note was in her handwriting," he said immediately. "SHIELD could never have gotten her to write that against her will. That doesn't mean that Ward isn't acting as a double agent, or that-"

He cleared his throat. "Or that May herself isn't setting a trap."

Jemma was well acquainted with his history with May, and knew how painful that idea must be. She squeezed his hand in silent empathy. "What will happen to Ward if we never show up?"

He paused. "It depends on Natasha and Clint," he said finally. "And how Ward reacts. They might continue with him to May, and gather what intel they can for us. But if they think he's a problem, then they have a more permanent solution."

It struck Jemma suddenly that she was tired of ruining the lives of other people in the quest to preserve her own, and that realization, more than anything, informed her decision. "I think we need to meet the team," she said after a few moments, and despite her certainty saying the words made her feel more anxious. She missed the days when her worries had less to do with harming other people and more to do with lab safety and whether or not she would have time to watch the latest episode of Doctor Who. That she had been rescued had been a blessing, and Phil was the greatest gift she had ever been given, but now she saw clearly how much of a threat she was to the safety of everyone else.

In some ways she had been right when she told Phil that he would be safer without her. If she were eliminated, the entire web would fall apart.

"You're sure?" he asked softly. "Natasha has arranged for new aliases in practically every country we might end up in. We could always make our way to New Zealand and see if I really could be good at raising sheep."

At any other moment she would crawl into his lap and have a little cry, but they were in public for all intents and purposes, and there might be cameras about. "We can't run forever," she said, feeling as if it had become her newest refrain. "And I couldn't- I couldn't be happy, knowing that we left Ward to some unknown fate." She gave him a teary smile. "Even if we aren't entirely sure of his motives."

He nodded after a moment. "Chile it is." He restarted the car and pulled back into traffic. She flipped down the visor and checked her makeup, relieved to see that only a few minor fixes were necessary.

"If the guard asks," he said as they passed a sign informing them that the Chilean border was a mere kilometer away, "tell him you were crying over my prostitutes."

* * *

Jemma fell asleep after they successfully passed through border control. She had put on the perfect performance of a distant, prickly wife, and the guard had given him a sympathetic look after stamping their passports, but the effort had obviously taken a great deal out of her.

She roused shortly before they reached the rendezvous, blinking sleepily in the sun. "How long?"

"We'll be there in about twenty minutes."

She nodded and undid her messy braid, pulling the rumpled strands back into a neat ponytail. She was displaying nothing more than the typical weariness associated with travel and stress, but he still remembered how tired she had been in those first days, and how little she had eaten. It was a disservice to her, perhaps, for him to worry so much over her health when she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but it would pain him to see her lose the vitality she had regained.

Maybe they should have run off to New Zealand after all.

"We could take a few back roads and head to Argentina," he offered, and she looked tempted. "It's not too late."

She shook her head. "It's too late for me."

It was not a sentiment he liked hearing from her in any circumstance. He was not surprised that the thought of putting Ward in danger had been the last straw for her conscience, but a little part of him wished that she would be a bit more selfish. Still, he nodded his acquiescence. "Just remember: if at any time you decide you're ready to leave, all you have to do is say the word."

She gave him the barest approximation of a smile before moving as close to him as her seat belt would allow, resting her head against his shoulder. "Believe me, Phil," she murmured, "if I ever decide that I want to raise sheep with anyone, it would definitely be with you."

Neither Clint nor Natasha gave any indication that they were at all startled to see them actually arrive within the specified time frame. It was likely that they had foreseen Jemma's softheartedness winning the day. Perhaps he had been the only one who had retained some hope that she would say yes, though even he had known that the odds were against it.

"Traffic?" Clint asked, casually stepping in between Jemma and Ward when the latter seemed to be studying her face a bit too closely. "Trouble at the border?"

"We just took our time," Phil demurred. "Any trouble at your end?"

"Why would there be trouble?" Clint asked innocently. "We're just two bros seeing the sights. Two bros and a dame, that is."

"That sounds like a very confused remake of Guys and Dolls." Phil glanced at Ward and gave him his best unimpressed stare. "Problems, Ward?"

"None, Sir," Ward replied, as straight-faced as ever. He definitely did not look like someone who would ever be called a 'bro', at least not unironically. Phil briefly considered bribing Skye to do so, if only to see Ward's reaction. "Are you sure we should go so long before the next rendezvous?"

That could simply be caution on Ward's part, or it could be a desire to keep tabs on them for other reasons. Either way, Phil had no intention of changing their current plan without good cause. "No need to play nursemaid," he said, allowing just the slightest condescending scold to creep into his voice. "Jemma and I will be just fine without anyone watching our backs for the next day or two."

"The faster we get there, the better," Ward insisted, and Phil exchanged the slightest of glances with Clint.

"The extra time is built in for a reason." Phil glanced around their sheltered grove, noting that Jemma had slipped away to speak quietly with Natasha. "Traffic jams, landslides, the odd parade- this isn't the kind of journey we can plan down to the minute. Besides, just because we _could_be in Antofagasta by late tomorrow morning is no reason to do so. Your average tourist wouldn't be driving all night."

"A valid point," Clint said in mock solemnity. "Perhaps you don't know how dedicated Phil is to crafting a perfect alias, Ward. I'm sure he is planning a romantic evening of wine, fine food, and seduction with the lovely Ms. Simmons for solely that reason. That is, after all, what men with younger wives do while on vacation."

Phil made a mental note to ask Jemma never to reveal the extent of her backstories to Clint, or at least not the ones that involved bartered brides and ladies of the evening. "And you will be searching out whatever nightlife Iquique has to offer, I suppose?" he asked Clint dryly. "Take Ward with you. Please don't get arrested, but if anything embarrassing happens, I want pictures."

"Of course." Clint looked legitimately offended. "I would never deny you the sight of Ward attempting to dance."

"What makes you think I can't dance?" Ward asked, looking somewhat offended himself.

Clint gave him the kind of look that people generally reserved for adorably overconfident children. "I'm sure you can."

Not for the first time, Phil was very glad that he was no longer traveling in the same car as the operatives three.

Natasha and Jemma rejoined them, Jemma slipping her hand into his. "Ready to go?" she asked quietly.

"Definitely." He glanced at the others, and suddenly felt a bit mischievous. "Natasha is in charge," he said, and saw the briefest hint of glee spark in her eyes. Clint gave him the kind of long-suffering look that Phil recognized as the preface to his more elaborate quests for revenge.

Ward, on the other hand, looked slightly nervous.

"That was a bit cruel," Jemma commented once they were back in the car, but she seemed entertained nonetheless.

"She will certainly keep Ward busy," he replied, and brushed his hand against her own. "We're still a good six hours to Iquique. Are you hungry?"

She shook her head. "No, not really." She shot him a perceptive glance. "Don't worry, Phil. I won't slip into that same pattern again."

He suppressed his sigh of relief. "Take another nap, then," he said, noting the shadows under her eyes that concealer was barely hiding. "It's mostly desert from here to Iquique."

"Seen one desert, seen them all, I suppose," she said cheerfully, putting on a pair of sunglasses. "Though the Atacama desert is supposed to be beautiful when it blooms. A pity that it's the wrong time of the year."

She relaxed beside him, but he could tell that she wasn't sleeping- she was too present, even as quiet as she was. "Do you even _know_ anything about sheep?" she asked suddenly, sounding intrigued. "If, theoretically, we ran off to New Zealand, would alpacas be equally acceptable?"

"I know that sheep are very popular in New Zealand," he replied with a smile. "But yes, I would also accept alpacas. Possibly even chickens."

"And what else would we do, other than care for animals that neither of us have seen other than in passing?"

"Plant flowers and visit the Lord of the Rings filming locations, I suppose." He dropped his free hand lightly on hers. "There are a number of excellent vineyards there as well."

She chuckled. "Aren't you concerned about getting bored?"

She said it casually, even playfully, but he sensed that there was more worry behind that question than she was allowing to show in her voice. "How could I be bored? This is the one adventure I never got to have."

She turned her hand over under his so that they were palm to palm. "Someone was also paying attention to our Doctor Who marathon."

"I actually was paying attention to things that happened on the Bus, you know," he replied in mock indignation. "I wasn't just navel-gazing up in my office."

"And yet you missed all of our orgies," she murmured sorrowfully, and when he glanced at her in shock he saw that her doe-eyed expression rivaled that of a Disney princess- and that she was lying through her teeth. "Even May came, but not Agent Coulson."

"If you are going to keep pulling lines like that, I think you need to drive," he responded after his brain had finished processing her words. "Anyway, there couldn't have possibly been orgies."

"Because you were so very attentive?" she asked him, beginning to giggle.

"No," he replied seriously, and then allowed his lips to quirk into a small smile. "Because there is very specific paperwork needed for such an occasion. Weren't you paying any attention to the seminars you attended before you joined the team?"

She was laughing outright now. "Does it have to be filed in triplicate?" she asked. "Signed by all parties?"

"And notarized."

"Ten days before the fact?"

"Thirty."

"And what department would you file that with?" she asked when she had regained enough of her breath to continue.

"Payroll," he said dryly, and she began laughing anew.

"I'm afraid to ask if that would result in a bonus or a fine," she said a few minutes later, accepting the handkerchief he offered her. She removed her sunglasses and dabbed at the corners of her eyes, still giggling occasionally. "So please don't tell me."

"It depends on how highly you're ranked in payroll's Hot-or-Not listing."

"_Phil._" She leaned against the car door, shaking with almost silent laughter at this point. She laughed easily, his Jemma, and yet she so rarely had an opportunity to laugh like this, so consumed by merriment that she forgot everything else for the space of at least a few seconds.

She kissed him on the cheek once she had collected herself, and then nuzzled his neck for good measure. "You put up with my flights of fancy very well these days."

He winced slightly, recalling how he had chided her for the train incident.

"No," she said firmly before he could even speak. "It's one thing when I go too far in private, and quite another in public."

"Still," he replied, "you achieved your objective. I've known field-certified agents who couldn't even manage that much. And if I have known that your imagination was quite that fertile, I would have discussed the op with you beforehand. I should have discussed it thoroughly with you anyway."

"Probably," she agreed, laying a hand on his arm. "You underestimated me," she said with a grin.

That he had.

* * *

The hotel he had chosen in Iquique was large and impersonal, but several notches higher on the scale than the rooms they had been sleeping in for the past few nights. The color palette of their room might be muted and the general environment sterile, but the bed was soft and the room clean, and that made up for a lot.

He had considered taking her out for a nice dinner on their last night alone, maybe even a bit of dancing, but by the time they had checked in he was no longer inclined to go anywhere. It was clear Jemma felt the same by the way she swayed slightly where she stood, weary despite the relatively early hour in the evening. She stepped into his arms after they had set down their bags, nestling against him.

"We should stay in," he murmured into her hair. "We spend enough time running around. We'll order room service and find something terrible to watch on television."

She sighed. "That does sound nice. Order something simple, please."

He let her go and picked up the phone and the nearby menu, absently listening to her movements in the room behind him while he placed his order with the restaurant. When he turned back around he found that she had pulled on one of his sweaters over her pajamas, and was rolling the long sleeves up several times to her wrists. He supposed it was cliche for a man to enjoy seeing a woman dressed in his clothes, but it was a classic for a reason.

"Cold?" he asked, taking a seat on the couch and pulling her down onto his lap. She drew her legs up onto the couch and snuggled against him, and he saw that she had put on a pair of his socks as well. "The air-conditioning must be set to arctic."

She nodded. "I like wearing your clothes, though; it's comforting." She yawned. "I shouldn't be this tired. I don't have any excuse, this time around."

"Stress and worry are bad enough on their own," he replied, enjoying her weight against him. He had never been with anyone who enjoyed cuddling quite as much as Jemma did; it was almost as if she were part cat. "And the past few days have been difficult."

"The honeymoon is definitely over," she agreed, and she was smiling when he looked down at her. "Now I'll have to start nagging you about leaving dirty socks on the bathroom floor, though I've never known you to do so in the past."

"I'm sure you'll find some annoying quirk." He relaxed further into the cushions and ran a hand down her side. "Though if you keep making jokes while I'm driving, neither of us will be around long enough to become disgruntled with the other."

"They should be teaching operatives that in their defensive driving courses," she said, running a finger along the skin that bordered the collar of his shirt. "Shame on them."

"My education was rather lacking." He picked up the remote and switched on the television, flipping idly through the channels until he came across a sight so bizarre he had to stop. "Jemma."

She turned her head to look at the television, and he could see her frowning slightly as she attempted to follow the announcer's rapid fire Spanish. After a moment she sat up on his lap, her shock equaling his. "Surely that footage has been faked."

"No," Phil said slowly as the footage played through for a second time, resisting the instinct that would have had him placing a protective arm across the scar on his chest. The clip was short, perhaps only thirty seconds long, and merely showed a familiar figure strolling down a city street. "That is, without a doubt, Loki Odinson."

She held still on his lap as they watched the broadcast in silence, but was on her feet the second it became clear that the news program had imparted every shred of information it had. "Is this good or bad?" she asked quietly, pacing a stretch of about six feet.

"Both," he answered after considering the question, trying to push away the dread that he felt. "Theoretically, we're nowhere near as important as another Asgardian invasion."

Not that the footage showed any indication on Loki's part that invasion was on the agenda, but as several of the boroughs of New York were still repairing the damage from his last visit to Earth, it seemed prudent to assume the worst.

"Unless they need more super soldiers," she continued, and bit one of her nails. "In which case I become priority number one."

"They're not getting you," he said firmly, standing up and taking her gently by the arms. She looked delicate in his sweater, and there was a furrow in the center of her forehead. She stopped worrying at her nail when he took another step toward her and kissed the slight line. "I'll get on my knees to Stark before they get you."

Whether her astonishment was at his words, or was merely a holdover from their most recent shock was difficult to tell. "No need to debase yourself," she whispered after a moment, and laid her fingers gently on his shirt, squarely above his scar. "They won't get either of us, this time."


	15. Fraxinus excelsior

**Notes: Thank you so much to everyone who is following and reviewing! I'm glad that you are enjoying the story so far, and I hope you all continue to do so. **

* * *

_Yggdrasill shivers,_  
_the ash, as it stands._  
_The old tree groans,_  
_and the giant slips free._  
-_Völuspá_, stanza 47 (Dronke)

They met the others in the outskirts of Antofagasta early the next evening. Jemma felt almost sick with nerves after a day of following the latest news on the radio, and it was compounded by the stress of facing the team for the first time in over a year. She might not have been so worried were it not for Ward's behavior, but if the others were acting half as odd she foresaw a number of headaches in her future.

Phil had been quiet during their drive, often resting his free hand on her knee or entwining his fingers with hers. She didn't need to ask him if he was all right when he obviously was not; he would talk when he was ready, and until then she would give him whatever quiet comfort she could.

The other three looked grim when they arrived. Clint, in particular, appeared haunted, though he gave her a small smile when she approached. "Awesome, isn't it? Loki being back for a little visit, and all."

She supposed that technically it was awesome, according to the oldest definition of the word. "Do you need to leave, Clint?" she asked him in quiet Limean as they stepped away from the others. "If the two of you need to be alone, we can go on without you."

That would have been her first instinct, in his situation: to hide away until the danger had passed. But then, she wasn't Clint Barton.

He shook his head, and reached out to tug lightly on her ponytail. His knuckles were bruised and split, and there appeared to be traces of some kind of friction burn. "Nah. But if Loki shows up…"

He paused. "Run," he said finally. "Just in case it happens again, run." He smiled somewhat sardonically. "Don't bother trying to get Nat to come with you, though. She'll be too stubborn to leave."

Jemma nodded, and glanced over at the other three, who were arguing in low voices in Italian. "Life has become a bit too exciting for comfort, hasn't it?"

"God, yes," he swore in the most sincere tone she had ever heard from him. "What I wouldn't give to be bored again." He caught her eyeing his hands meaningfully, and he shrugged. "Harder to punch a hole in a carpeted floor."

When the other three finally finished arguing- Ward breaking away from their small knot, throwing his hands up into the air in a manner that suggested he had slipped into Italianate gestures at the same time as switching languages- they adjourned to a nearby bus station, where they left their cars in long-term parking and boarded a bus to city center. In the space of the next hour they switched buses four more times, eventually disembarking near the Catholic University of the North.

While their tactic in Lima had been to rusticate, May had chosen a neighborhood populated almost entirely by the ever-shifting student population. In any other neighborhood such a disparate group as May, Ward, Skye, and Fitz would have been at the very least odd, if not a source of gossip, but here, where students of all ages and nationalities mingled freely, their very oddness was normal.

It was May who greeted them in the front room, in an apartment so small Jemma could not imagine where they would all sleep. It had to be a tight fit with four; with eight, they would be bedding down on the floor. May gave her a quick, assessing look. While she didn't seem wary, she did appear to be almost… irritated. But then, that was fairly standard for May, and there was a trickster god strolling casually along the streets of New York City, so perhaps Jemma was no longer the problem she had once been.

The woman in question lifted one of the local newspapers from a nearby table, raising a brow in annoyance as she showed them the picture of Loki bypassing a line at a Starbucks (the line, admittedly, was obviously in the process of disintegrating as various customers wisely decided to seek their caffeine fix elsewhere). "What the fuck, Phil."

"We live in miraculous times," he said dryly. "What more can I say?"

"Loki does not simply walk into a Starbucks and order a latte," she said sternly, and dropped the paper back onto the table. "What the hell is he doing back in this universe in the first place?"

"I don't have a mystical connection with the man," Phil replied, and Jemma hid her smile at his waspish tone. "How the hell am I supposed to know?"

"Has Thor shown up?" Clint asked, his serious expression tinged with unease. "This isn't some kind of brotherly bonding trip, is it?"

"No sign of Thor," May said with a shake of her head. "I spoke with my last contact in New York this morning, and she says that everything is fairly quiet there, Loki's presence aside. And that is where we come to our real problem."

"Oh, enlighten us, please," Clint said in a pained voice.

"Loki met with SHIELD," May informed them flatly. "An actual meeting, in which no windows were broken and no one died."

"So what this all boils down to is that our seemingly excellent distraction is nothing like we thought," Natasha summarized briskly, looking bored. "And while it is entirely possible that he has managed to control the minds of half of SHIELD's top ranking agents, there is really nothing we can do except wait and see."

"Rather anti-climactic," Clint commented.

"Perhaps he's just burdened with less glorious purpose this time around," Jemma said, the first time she had spoken since entering the room. She ignored the flutter in her stomach as May abruptly focused her attention on her once again.

Clint gave her a quick, if strained, grin. "It would be exhausting, wouldn't it? Sometimes a man just needs to be burdened with less god-like purpose. Hence the coffee run." He glanced at May. "I don't suppose we know what his order was?"

She shot him a sour look. "A dry soy cappuccino."

"Truly," Clint said with a sigh, "he is the god of trolls. In the internet sense."

The sound of a key in the lock to the front door gave them fleeting warning before Skye appeared. She dropped an armload of books on the floor in excitement, kicking the door closed behind her. Within seconds Jemma found herself trapped in Skye's embrace, who giddily squeezed her tightly before moving on to do the same to Phil.

"AC, I am _wounded_ that you didn't take us with you on your adventures," Skye said as she launched herself at Phil, crashing against him with such intensity that he had to take a step back when he caught her. "SHIELD had me filing expense reports in a basement for five months. You have no idea how many paper-cuts I received."

She pulled away, spotting Clint and Natasha, who were regarding her with varying levels of amusement. "Oh my God, you're Clint Barton," Skye said with unabashed glee, and Jemma saw Phil hide a smile when she clapped her hands in delight.

Not to be outdone, Clint responded in much the same tone. "Oh my God, you're Skye Who-the-hell-knows."

It was a testament to Clint's own charm that Skye simply responded with a laugh, all the while eyeing his biceps with an appreciative look.

Jemma stepped closer to Phil as Skye turned her attention to Natasha, who was regarding her with the same kind of expression she often had when she looked at Clint: vaguely amused, and perhaps even a bit fond. Jemma could tell that May was somehow dividing her attention between Skye's introduction to Natasha and Jemma herself. She sensed more than saw the moment when May caught a glimpse of the tender expression Phil was giving her, and the way his hand brushed against her own.

"Tired?" he murmured in Limean, and she shrugged slightly. She was. She already felt overwhelmed by the number of people in this small room, and Fitz hadn't even made an appearance. She didn't know what to expect out of Fitz, and the uncertainty weighed on her. He might welcome her as a friend, or- and she dearly hoped this would not be the case- absence might have made the heart grow fonder in a way that would only complicate matters.

"A bit," she said softly. "I'm hungry."

Miraculously she was, despite how nervous she felt. A meal and some quiet time would restore her equilibrium, and if she couldn't have both she would at least take the former.

"May," Phil said, turning slightly away from her. "Perhaps we should send someone out for dinner?" There was a barely discernible pause before he asked, "And where is Fitz?"

"Late class," Skye replied immediately. "He wanted to be here, but even undercover he's too good a student to play hooky." She flashed a quick, conspiratorial grin at Jemma. "He's wild to see you, though."

_Oh dear_, Jemma thought, feeling sick.

Ward volunteered to fetch food, disappearing out the door quickly and silently as Skye grabbed Jemma's hand, pulling her out of the room. "I want to hear everything," she said, nearly dragging her into a miniscule bedroom and slamming the door behind them. "Like, what the hell were you doing in Peru for so long, other than drooling over Hawkeye's arms? Does the Black Widow really eat babies for breakfast? Does AC have any hobbies other than filling out paperwork and collecting Captain America memorabilia? Did you hear him crying at night over his lost Lola? I _need to know_, Jemma."

"Oh." Jemma considered the spate of questions, unsure where to begin, and sat tentatively on the small bed. "We mainly stayed at the house," she said finally. "I planted a garden, and trained with Clint and Natasha-"

Skye grabbed her arm at that, and rolled up the sleeve so that she could inspect Jemma's biceps. "That is amazing," she said after a moment. "You actually have muscle definition. Can I see your abs?"

Jemma flinched, thinking about the map of scars over her stomach. The only person she trusted with seeing any portion of her torso was Phil, who left her in no doubt that every inch of her was beautiful to him. Skye, seeing her reaction, abruptly turned serious.

"Sorry," she said, and in that instant Jemma knew that Skye, too, had also read Jemma's medical file, and only her natural exuberance and curiosity had led to her asking such a question. In some ways, Jemma was less bothered by Skye knowing her secrets than Ward knowing the same. Jemma, after all, knew Skye's secrets. It was a fair exchange.

"No," Jemma said awkwardly, shaking her head. "I have some scars." She waved her hand dismissively, realizing belatedly that it was her left as the diamond flashed in the light.

"Shit," Skye said in awe, distracted from the more serious topic with magpie-esque fascination. "That, my friend, is quite the rock." She grinned again. "Are you fake-married to Hawkeye? Were there bad-girl shenanigans?"

"No," Jemma responded, in a more indignant tone than she had intended.

Skye opened her mouth to speak, and then froze. "Oh my God," she whispered a few seconds later. "Are you Mrs. Coulson?"

Jemma could feel herself blushing at that, and Skye bounced on the bed beside her. "Fake-married to AC; I _love_ it. Did you ever have to kiss him to keep up your cover? What was it like? Was it weird, or sexy and masterful?" She tapped her bottom lip thoughtfully. "I'm guessing sexy and masterful."

Jemma couldn't help but feel smug, even as she continued to blush. "He's a very good kisser." It was an understatement, but Skye didn't need to know that. "And it's not fake," she said after a moment.

Skye stared at her, and Jemma could almost see the moment when all of the pieces clicked into place. "You really are Mrs. Coulson."

"Not legally," Jemma clarified, brushing the thumb of her right hand over the diamond in her ring. "Just in every way that matters."

"Huh," Skye said, gazing absently at the wall as she considered this new information. "Is he good in bed?"

She apparently took Jemma's blushing silence as a yes, as was intended. "Jemma," Skye said seriously, taking her hands. "This is the most adorable fucking thing I have ever heard in my life."

* * *

May stared after Jemma and Skye as they left the room, and turned to Phil. "You're sleeping with her," she stated bluntly in Mandarin. "Really, Phil?"

"Careful, May," he responded, and while his overall expression did not change from the bland mask he had worn for so many years, he allowed his eyes to narrow slightly and his gaze to sharpen. She caught the change easily enough, and quirked a brow so slightly he doubted most would notice.

Both Clint and Natasha had noticed, of course, and he saw the moment when their stances changed from simple wariness to actively on guard. They might not know Mandarin, but they were experts at body language.

May considered him for a few seconds, the short span of time stretching to feel almost endless. "Well, I suppose it is traditional," she finally said. "The valiant knight always wins the princess, doesn't he?" It was difficult for even him to determine how she felt about the situation, though he was fairly certain that she wasn't enough of a hypocrite to base her opinion solely on their age difference.

"I love her, May," he said, and she merely nodded in return.

"Of course you do. How could you resist that kind of gratitude?"

May knew him better than almost anyone, save Jemma, and her words were a veritable punch to the stomach. He had worried about that, in the early days- that Jemma's affection was derived solely from gratitude and a desire to thank him in one of the only ways she had available.

Fortunately, Jemma had long ago convinced him otherwise. He no longer doubted her sincerity, or her love, but May's inference stung nonetheless.

"That's insulting to both of us." He allowed her to see how very unamused he was by her words. "I don't want you talking to her like that."

"We're in a great deal of trouble," May replied seriously.

"You didn't have to involve yourself in it." He switched to English. "You could have stayed safe in SHIELD's strongholds. No one asked you to drop everything and run."

"And leave you a fugitive for the rest of your life?" she bit out, her words still in Mandarin. "I promised to watch your back, Phil, and that's what I'm doing. I didn't say a word when you abandoned the rest of us to find Simmons, but the situation is not what you think it is."

"Then what is the situation, May?" he asked angrily as Natasha and Clint drifted to more easily defensible corners of the room. "She's not contagious. She's not _dangerous_."

There was a thick brown manila envelope on the table beside the newspaper, and May picked it up now, thrusting it at him. "Are you so sure about that?"

He accepted the envelope from her, weighing it in his hand. Surprisingly light, for what it contained. He was certain that Jemma wasn't dangerous- he believed it more fervently than he had ever believed any religion- but he also trusted that May wouldn't react so strongly to just super serum and scars.

In any case, the discovery wasn't his to make. Without a word to the others he strode to the door he had seen Skye and Jemma disappear through, and knocked.

It was Skye who answered, and when her eyes dropped to the envelope the happy expression on her face vanished.

"I'd like to speak with Jemma alone, please," he said quietly, and Skye nodded, edging past him into the hall.

Jemma's eyes were also caught by the envelope, and she spoke as he closed the door. "That's my file," she said plainly.

"Yes." He sat on the bed beside her, and placed the parcel gently on her lap. "Do you want me to leave?"

She shook her head quickly. "No." Her hand dropped hesitantly onto the thick, unmarked paper. "Please stay."

She flipped over the envelope slowly, and undid the small clasp. The papers that she slid onto her lap were an odd mix: some were handwritten scraps, and some were photocopies, and at the very bottom of the pile was a picture of Jemma with a familiar code scrawled across the bottom.

"Oh," she said, so quietly that he barely heard her. She held the photograph lightly between two fingers, as if she didn't quite want to touch it. "Look who else died."

* * *

Jemma set aside the photograph with trembling hands, and began sifting through the papers, not daring to sneak a glimpse of Phil. The photo had been dated five months into her imprisonment, and the pile of notes in her lap very clearly fit into two different periods: before her death, and after her resurrection. It was also clear that the attending physician, if there had been such a person, had been replaced at roughly the same time. The records might be written in standard medical language, but the voice had changed.

"Catastrophic epidural hemorrhage," she said calmly, feeling as if another person was speaking altogether. "I might have only remembered one lumbar puncture, but it wasn't the only one." She scanned the report written directly after her death. It was easier to take in the information if she pretended that it was written about an entirely different person. She could make sense of it, then. She wouldn't be tempted to scream or throw things across the room. "They got greedy, the poor sods. They took too much in too short a time."

Jemma shuffled through the remaining pages, not reading so much as skimming the information. Tests, physiotherapy, drug treatments, mentions of the preliminary serum trials. Page after page of words she could scarcely keep her eyes on, as the same phrase repeated over and over in her mind:

_19:45, August 17 - 06:23, August 20._

She dropped the pages onto her lap. Phil was utterly still beside her, and all she could clearly see of him was his hand resting between them on the bed, every muscle tense. She steeled herself to meet his gaze, preparing for the moment when she would look up and everything would be real, and it would be her face and her name emblazoned on the black and white photograph lying at her side, and not some random stranger who by coincidence looked rather like Jemma.

She couldn't, and the knowledge of why was enough to lower her guard. She gave a sudden sob, momentarily confused as to how she could have allowed it to slip past her defenses, but she was done for in that moment.

The papers scattered to the floor as she stood, moving so quickly and so unsteadily that she struck the wall that was only a few feet away from the edge of the bed. The rebound sent her directly against Phil, who had stood just in time to catch her.

"I don't-" she gasped out amidst sobs, her hands clenching at his shirt. "I. I didn't-"

"I know," he murmured into her ear, his arms wrapped firmly around her. "I know."

He held her up when she would have collapsed onto the floor, and she let him guide her back onto the bed, where she curled up on her side and hid her face in her arms. He lay down behind her, a solid defense against everything except for the fears that were now awake and present in her own mind.

Jemma knew about decomposition; had studied every aspect first hand. Algor mortis, livor mortis, rigor mortis. The pH change of autolysis, leading to a loss of cell structure; the bacterial decomposition known as putrefaction. Every stage ran through her mind in intricate detail as she continued to sob; the dry, clinical information in direct juxtaposition to the loss of control she felt.

She was not entirely certain how much time had passed once the tears finally abated, leaving her shaking and sick with a fierce headache. She didn't want to move, and yet at some point soon she would have to pull herself back to her feet and face everyone again, who had more than likely heard every sob through the thin walls.

Worse was the moment when she would have to discuss this with Phil, who had waited so quietly and patiently while she wept. He had one arm tucked firmly around her, and in the silence she noticed for the first time that he was kissing the top of her head. "They killed me," she heard herself say, in a confused, almost childlike voice. "They actually killed me."

It was odd, to be alive and still know with absolute certainty that she had died at the hands of a negligent, uncaring, medical staff. She had been dead for nearly three days, perhaps stored in some kind of deep freeze before they put into play whatever they had used to bring her back. Not for the first time she wondered what kind of treatment could stimulate cellular growth and cause dead synapses to fire to life inside the brain.

It had been academic curiosity when she considered the question before, but now her own body felt alien and untrustworthy. She had been dead, and now she wasn't, and at some point in between her body had begun the normal process of post-mortem decay until decay had been arrested and violently reversed.

His arm tightened around her, and his voice, when he spoke, was grim. "Do you want me to kill them for you, Jemma?"

He would, she could tell, and that in itself caused her another moment of panic. "No," she said quickly, wriggling in his grip until she faced him, not caring that she looked an absolute mess. "I'm so tired of death, Phil," she half-begged him, raising a hand to his face. "Please, please don't. Don't leave me."

His gaze softened as he examined her face, and he kissed her forehead. "If that's what you want, that's what you shall have," he said. "I'll keep my hands clean, for you."

She pressed her fevered face against his neck, her breathing still unsteady. "Don't ask anyone else to do it, either."

He grumbled a bit at that, one hand stroking her back. "I want to tear SHIELD down brick by brick and sow the ground with salt."

_Demons run when a good man goes to war_, she thought, feeling a pang. "It would leave too great a power vacuum. And not- not everyone is culpable for one rogue department."

Easy words to say as the numbness set in. She had never been a particularly vengeful person. She wondered idly what that kind of drive would feel like.

"Do we have to stay here tonight?" She felt as if the walls were pressing in on her. She couldn't face the idea of a whole night of awkward conversations and stares, not in this small apartment with nowhere to hide.

"No," he assured her. "We'll leave when you're ready."

She nodded, and let him hold her for a few minutes more before she pulled wearily away, her head throbbing as she sat up. "Could you get me some water?" she asked him, and he left the room quietly after stroking her back one last time.

Jemma glanced down at the floor, noting the scattered and crumpled papers that were the remnants of her time underground, and after a moment began to pick up every scrap. It was hers, after all, and some cold, practical part of her knew that there would come a time when she would want to examine each sentence more closely. There might be clues buried within the drug regimens or the blood panels, perhaps even straightforward answers.

She slid the last piece of paper back inside of the envelope as he re-entered the room, a glass of water and a damp washcloth in his hands. She took the washcloth first, sighing in relief at the feel of the cool fabric against her skin.

She heard him kneel in front of her, and his hands settled gently on her thighs. "This doesn't change anything for me," he told her. She wiped her face clean, catching a glimpse of his sincere expression. "I need you to know that, Jemma."

She believed him. This information did change something for her- not the way she felt about him, but the way she felt about herself. It was almost as if she were back in that bathroom in Manaus, examining her scars for the first time. "I know," she said after a minute, pulling the cloth away from her face and meeting his eyes for the first time. "I just don't know what to do, now."

"We're going to take a few days to regroup." His hands flexed lightly against her legs. "Someplace quiet. We don't have to decide our next step right away."

She nodded slowly, her gaze dropping to his hands. "We should have just gone to New Zealand," she said, and picked up the glass of water from the floor beside him. He pulled a small bottle of aspirin from his pocket, and she gave him a small smile. "Thank you."

He bent and kissed her left knee, and rested his forehead there for a long moment. "I don't know what I would do without you, Jemma," he admitted quietly, and lifted his head. "We'll figure this out together."

Jemma dropped her free hand lightly on his head, caressing the skin that bordered his hairline. "I know," she murmured, not feeling much of anything. "We always do."

* * *

May had arranged for them to sublet a small apartment several blocks away, on one of the quieter streets that surrounded the university. It wasn't much to look at, but it offered enough privacy that Jemma seemed to breath a bit easier once they were all securely inside. Neither Clint nor Natasha asked what had been in the envelope, and Jemma had carried it with her into their bedroom, where she had tucked it into one of the drawers.

She looked shell-shocked, which she had every right to be, and her eyes never seemed to focus on any one thing as she unpacked the rest of her things.

It was the sudden cessation of her movements that made him turn around, and he found her staring at her hands as if she had never seen them before.

"Did I come back wrong?" she asked, and the idea was so absurd that he was momentarily stymied as to how best to answer. Laughing, gentle Jemma was as far from wrong as anyone could possibly be.

"_No_."

She didn't seem to take any notice. "I killed someone, Phil. Would the old Jemma have slit someone's throat?"

"You were under extreme duress, and the circumstances were even worse than we previously thought." He took a step toward her, and stopped abruptly when she immediately took a step back. "They brought it on themselves."

She turned her hands over to inspect her palms.

"You once told me that I had come back better," he continued when it became clear that she had no intention of replying. "I think you did, too."

The look she gave him was the closest thing to derision that he had ever seen on her face. "I mean it, Jemma. Not everyone could have handled this situation with your grace. I couldn't have."

"I just-"

She stopped, and took another step back. She had literally placed herself in a corner, and looked disgruntled by the fact. "I thought I understood what had happened," she said. "And now I find out that I- that my hypothesis was wrong the entire time."

"Not wrong, necessarily," he replied.

"Flawed, then." She slid down the wall to sit on the floor. "How did you deal with this, when you first learned the truth?"

"I drank," he said bluntly. "I annoyed the hell out of May with a very drawn-out existential crisis. And, of course, I was snappish with all of my other agents." He gave her a smile, not liking the distance she had placed between them, but understanding her need. "You were much kinder to me in those days than I deserved."

"Perhaps this is my chance to be snappish right back." She ran a hand over her face. "No revenge plots, Phil," she reiterated wearily. "I just want to stay under the radar. I'm not… steady, right now."

He took a seat on the bed, a good six feet still separating them. "We'll be as quiet as can be, then."

"I would also like to sleep alone, tonight." She said it softly, keeping her head down as if afraid he would object.

"Of course," he said after a moment, carefully keeping his expression calm. "Whatever you need."

She nodded slightly, still looking downward. "Thank you."

* * *

_Notes: "Demons run when a good man goes to war." - Doctor Who, "A Good Man Goes to War."_


	16. Pimpinella anisum

_But you, O Dika, bind your hair with lovely crowns,_  
_tying stems of anise together in your soft hands._  
_For the blessed Graces prefer to look on one who wears flowers_  
_and turn away from those without a crown._  
-Sappho (Carson)

Even as a child Jemma had never slept particularly well in an unfamiliar bed. Sleepovers and family visits had always meant a night of tossing and turning before finally falling into a muddled sleep shortly before dawn.

The same held true that night in Antofagasta, though it was made worse by the way her mind explicated, in thorough detail, the causes, symptoms, and exact details of how someone might die of epidural hematoma. She wasn't entirely sure if she was remembering pieces of her death or if it was just her very vivid imagination, but she felt as if she was experiencing a faint sensory memory of the event. She kept shifting her position, as if turning to her other side would make the slightest bit of difference. Gradually she worked her way from lying down to sitting on the bed amidst the pillows, and from there to the floor. She finally found herself tucked in the corner of the room, breathing as heavily as if she had been pursued there at a run.

She hadn't slept alone in nearly a year, and her reasons for asking Phil to sleep elsewhere no longer felt valid. She had wanted the space and the quiet, the lack of someone else's worried gaze upon her, but now the room was too large and too cold, despite the warmth of the night. The longer she was alone the more the room felt like her cell, and unbidden memories were creeping in.

She knew that it was ridiculous to be scared of the room, and even more ridiculous to fear crossing the short space to the closed door, but a small part of her seemed convinced that nothing but a white hall lay beyond. It was enough to freeze her into place for minutes at a time as she inched toward the doorway.

Opening the door and finding nothing but a dim hall and dingy carpet shattered the hold memories had placed on her. Jemma crept as quickly as possible into the living room, and knew before she even knelt by the edge of the couch that he was awake and watching her. "I'm sorry," she whispered, hearing the slight quaver in her voice, and touched his hand with her fingertips. "I shouldn't have asked you to leave."

He held the blanket up in silent invitation, and she quickly joined him, letting out a small sigh as he curled an arm around her. They barely fit in the small space, but it was a relief to hear the steady beat of his heart underneath her ear. "It was a perfectly reasonable request," he said. "Given the choice I would have hidden away when I first found out about my death."

"But you didn't," she replied, feeling absurdly guilty.

"I did more than my share," he said simply. "And then I had a biochemist to save, which kept me pretty busy."

"I don't know what to do." She pulled the blanket up a few more inches, until it was just over her head. "I don't even know where to start."

"There's always New Zealand." He had both arms around her now, one hand cradling the back of her head. "Or if you'd like a distraction we could explore the city and the coastline. Perhaps I could take you dancing."

She smiled softly, beginning to warm degree by degree in her safe little cave. "We've never been dancing."

"We have, after a fashion," he replied. "But you are correct, and I intend to rectify that error as soon as possible."

"I only know how to waltz," she admitted, and he was quiet for a moment.

Suddenly he pressed lightly on her hip, pushing her up. "If you know how to waltz, you can rumba," he said confidently. "Get up, Jemma."

She untangled herself from the blanket and stood, willing to be distracted but startled by the abrupt change in topic. "It's three in the morning."

"There are no rules against rumba lessons at three in the morning."

"Clint and Natasha are asleep," she half-protested, beginning to smile nonetheless.

"No, they aren't. They probably woke up the second you opened the door."

"We did," she heard Clint say from the other room. "But this is really charming, so please keep going."

She laughed slightly at his unexpected contribution as Phil pulled her toward him, keeping several inches between them. He pressed one hand firmly against her back. "You know the basic box step," he said, taking her right hand. "Put your other hand on my shoulder."

She did, hesitantly. "The lights aren't on."

"The light from the street is enough." The hand on her back dipped lower, settling near the base of her spine. "The steps are the same, but the rhythm is different. Slow, quick, quick, slow, quick, quick."

Jemma followed as he led her through the basic square several times at half pace. He was a natural leader, knowing just how to apply the subtle pressure needed to keep her in rhythm.

"Good," he said in a pleased tone. "Now add the hips. Let them sway in the same rhythm as the steps."

She frowned. "How-"

He closed the distance between them, pressing his body against hers, and spoke softly into her ear. "You are very good with your hips," he murmured, in the same voice that he used in bed. She felt herself blush furiously. "I know this for a fact."

"Instinct," she whispered against his neck as he held her against him, leading her through the steps again with the added sway. "The better to increase the level of friction."

"You have excellent instincts." He spun her out gently while she was distracted, and quickly pulled her back in. "Very good."

She followed his lead in the dim room, feeling the scratch of the cheap carpet beneath her bare feet, and dropped her head to his shoulder as they continued to move through the basic figure.

"Phil," she said softly, "how are we still alive?"

"I don't know," he replied immediately, "but you make me very happy to be."

She sniffled quietly, blinking away tears. "I don't know the science for this. There should be an answer."

"There is one." He pulled their clasped hands toward his mouth and kissed her fingers. "And we'll find it someday. But for now our hearts continued to beat, and your brain function, at least, is as excellent as it ever was."

"And yours isn't?" she asked with a bit of amusement.

"I was a bit more oxygen deprived than you were," he replied dryly. "But you were always smarter than me, so I don't mind."

She smiled and let her eyes close, feeling the first hints of drowsiness steal in. "You're so warm."

"And so are you." They drifted to a stop in the center of the room. "You've never been anything but full of life, Jemma," he said softly, his breath warm against her hairline. "Don't let them win."

She didn't resist when he picked her up and carried her back to the bed, only held out her arms for him when he laid her back amidst the sheets, not satisfied until he was lying by her side.

"We'll have to keep practicing," she said sleepily, repositioning herself so that she could hear his heart again. "Rumba, I mean."

"I think you have a very bright future in rumba," she heard him say, and fell asleep.

* * *

He felt Jemma wake several hours later, shifting restlessly before stilling abruptly, her head now tucked against his side.

"Sorry," she whispered when he moved in response. "I was dreaming."

Not a very good dream, he would guess. "Do you need anything?"

"No." She was silent for a moment, and then unexpectedly asked, "Why do you think he's here?"

"Loki?" he asked, feeling as if he was on a five second delay. "Because he enjoys keeping us on our toes, I suppose."

"'Communism is just a red herring'," she quoted softly. "I would really prefer if our life were a bit less interesting."

"As would I, but we don't need to worry about him right now."

She shook her head slightly. "I think we do- and it's easier to think about him than other things." She pressed herself closer to him and sighed. "But I can't ignore those other things."

"You could take a day or two," he said. "We don't have to find the answers right away."

She laughed quietly. "And this from Agent Phil Coulson. You put me through a number of sleepless nights on the Bus that weren't pleasant at all. Perhaps I should start a list of the differences between Agent Coulson and Husband Coulson."

"It would be a very long list. Or a very short one, depending on how you look at it."

"A fair point." She placed a hand on his chest, her fingertips brushing against the bare skin above his collar. "I need to examine that file."

"Okay."

"And then I need to talk to Fitz."

He blinked. "Of course."

"I can't put it off any longer," she explained. "It's just one more thing to worry about."

He rolled onto his side to face her. "Whatever you need to do," he said, brushing his fingers lightly down her neck, over a pulse point. "Make a list. We'll check everything off one by one."

"I'm not sure Loki will be so easily checked off any list," she replied, and he thought she might be smiling. "We might need sublists."

"The sublists will need sublists. However long it takes, Jemma."

"Okay." She moved closer, laying her head against his shoulder. "We start after breakfast."

They slept until just past nine, and he awoke to a numb arm and her peaceful, sleeping face.

He had come to a strange kind of acceptance with what they thought she had gone through- it had become a fact, and a fact that neither of them preferred to dwell on- and now came this newest blow. In an odd way, it put their relationship into an entirely new perspective for him. He had spent more time than he should have wondering how she could have accepted his own death, how she could have literally bared herself to him and taken what had once been dead flesh inside herself without a qualm. He thought he understood now, at least somewhat. He was incapable of looking at Jemma, as flushed with life as she was, and seeing a dead woman. Her mind was as sharp as it had ever been, her body soft and warm, and there was not an inch of her that was not utterly alive.

SHIELD, though- he was light years away from ever forgiving SHIELD.

"You're frowning," she muttered, her eyes still closed. "I can tell. Stop it."

"I was just thinking that I don't want Clint and Natasha around when I teach you the tango," he lied, shifting her slightly to allow full circulation again. "Too distracting."

"I know you're lying." She opened her eyes and sat up, looking deliciously disheveled. "No revenge plots, Phil." She shook a finger at him, scowling slightly. "I'm quite serious."

"And I'm very angry." He met her gaze squarely. "It's a different situation, Jemma. I died as a result of my own actions; what they did to you was tantamount to murder."

"Negligence," she corrected, averting her eyes slightly as if aware she was trivializing the situation. "Not that it makes me any happier. I won't have you running off and dying again over this." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Unless you would prefer to sleep on the couch indefinitely."

Stronger men than he would have crumpled at the sight of Jemma, scolding and half-dressed. "I make no promises if SHIELD agents actually show up."

"Self-defense is acceptable." She laid down again, crossing her arms over her chest. "Honestly, Phil."

He brushed a finger against her shoulder. "I promise not to do anything rash, Jemma," he said seriously, "but I can't promise not to be angry at them."

She considered this, and finally relaxed. "I suppose that is allowable." She rolled onto her side, tucking a hand under her cheek. "I'm fairly upset, as well."

"An understatement, I think." He kissed her softly, brushing her hair away from her face. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes."

"Then let me feed you before you start work." He gave her a meaningful look when she opened her mouth to protest.. "I need something to do, Jemma."

After a moment she smiled slightly and shrugged. "Very well."

* * *

He watched in silence as she spread the contents of her file around her on the living room floor, and after a few minutes it became clear that she was sorting the papers into a timeline. The photograph lay roughly a third of the way down the neat semi-circle; unsurprisingly, the aftermath of death and resurrection generated more paperwork that the first five months combined.

She made no objection when Clint and Natasha joined them, even nodded her head as they slowly worked their way down the completed timeline, stepping around her as she read through the papers slowly. She had a notebook balanced on one knee, and was jotting down notes in some kind of shorthand that Phil didn't recognize.

She stayed there for the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon, and he drifted in and out of the room, conversing quietly with Clint and Natasha and drinking far too much coffee. Twice he left a mug of tea beside Jemma as she worked, and both slowly grew cold and untasted.

She finally stood and stretched around three in the afternoon, her notebook half-full of her neat cursive. She paused on her way out of the room, leaning against him for a brief moment. "Food?" she asked, sounding exhausted.

"Meet me in the kitchen in five minutes," he said, stroking his fingers lightly through her hair, and she nodded before walking down the hall and out of sight.

"There are gaps," she said a few minutes later as she folded meat and cheese into a piece of bread. "Important pieces could be missing."

She began eating with intent, looking half-starved.

"Eat first," he said, a bit worried she might choke. "Report later."

She shook her head and put down her sandwich, taking a drink of her tea before she spoke. "Anything could be missing, Phil. For all we know I died twice."

"You are an overachiever," Clint said from his spot near the door. "I bet you've forgotten more about dying than Phil ever learned."

Surprisingly, she laughed at this jibe. "I'm hardly Buffy Summers."

"Are you okay? Physically?" Phil asked her quietly, taking a seat at the table. "What do the last reports say?"

She traced an abstract pattern onto the table with one finger, looking thoughtful. "Fine. Different." She looked up at that. "It's inconclusive based on the last report, but the virus might even have been receding. The alien cell count in my cerebrospinal fluid was just a bit lower than it had been the last time they drew a sample." She shrugged. "Or that could have been an abnormality that righted itself."

"An abnormality of an abnormality," Clint said. "How very SHIELD."

"So whatever they did to bring you back might have overrode the Chitauri virus." Natasha looked intrigued. "You might even be virus-free at this point."

"We wouldn't know that without a full range of tests." Jemma shivered slightly. "I'm afraid that I'm not quite as comfortable with needles as I once was."

"Was there any indication of what they might have used?" Phil twisted his ring absently. "If we had my file…"

"I would be interested in seeing your file," Jemma agreed. "I didn't recognize several of the drugs they used on me, and if we found an overlap, that could be the culprit."

She began to eat again, looking troubled.

"Well," Clint said after a moment, exchanging a glance with Natasha, "this has all been very interesting, but Nat and I have plans."

Phil doubted they had plans so much as Clint needed to hide away for a bit. He was holding up well, all things considered, but there was an edge to many of his jokes that was not typically there. The newest revelations about Jemma were not helping. The look on his face after he had finished working his way down Jemma's timeline had been an expression of cold fury, and Natasha hadn't looked much different.

Jemma sat back when they heard the lock in the front door engage. "As best I can tell, the last report we have was from right before the- the nurse." She tapped a nail against the side of her mug, frowning. "Phil, I think they saw that same shift that I did."

"Did the report mention what they were planning?" He could only imagine how they would have reacted, if they had suspected that their prize patient would shortly be less than useful. If she could no longer produce the serum they wanted, even after they had gone to the trouble to drag her back to the world of the living, their reaction might have been extreme.

"No." She paused. "I'm not sure I want to know."

There was a knock on the front door, and he left her staring rather morosely at her half-empty plate. He was not surprised when one of their visitors turned out to be Skye, but he was a bit startled to see Fitz, though he was careful not to show it. The Scot seemed relaxed, if a slightly nervous, though that might have been because Skye had him in a headlock when Phil pulled open the door.

"Hey, AC," Skye said, her grin somewhat sheepish as she released Fitz. "Is this a good time?"

No such thing, these days, but he stepped aside without a word, raising a brow at her questioningly. She ignored the gesture, sauntering down the hall toward the kitchen, leaving Phil and Fitz in awkward silence.

"Sir," Fitz said finally, extending his hand. "Good to see you again."

Miraculously, he seemed sincere. "You look well."

"Well enough," Fitz replied with a shrug, and gave him a grin. "Skye will insist on asking five million questions about everything, so I've gone half mad, but other than that…"

Fitz came further into the room, his gaze lighting on Jemma's file, still neatly arranged on the floor. A stormy expression crossed his face. "Those fucking bastards," he muttered. "Reducing brilliant little Jemma to nothing more than meat." He caught Phil's gaze. "We should do something about them."

There was a bloodthirsty look in Fitz's eyes that Phil completely identified with. "Jemma forbids it," he said, allowing some of his irritation to show, and Fitz offered him a sympathetic smile.

"She's too sweet for her own good," he said with a nod. "Good luck with that." He gave Phil a sharp look. "You'll be good to my girl, I hope?"

It was less of a question and more of an unspoken threat. "Skye told you?" Phil asked, wondering how in depth she had gone, and how much artistic license she had used.

"Skye is a romantic at heart. She thought I would cry, so she wanted me forewarned." Fitz shrugged slightly, appearing uncomfortable. "A bit disappointed, perhaps, but I could never be mad at Jemma." He pointed a stern finger at Phil, his gaze flinty. "Now you- if you ever hurt her, I will send a robot army after you."

"I have no doubt," Phil replied in all honesty. He had seen a glimpse of this more dangerous side of Leopold Fitz early in their acquaintance, and that glimpse had intrigued him. It was clear that Fitz would have no misgivings over exacting any revenge he deemed necessary if he thought Phil deserved it.

Fitz maintained direct eye contact with him for a few moments more before nodding, appearing at least temporarily appeased. He shifted his weight, suddenly looking a bit uncertain. "I'd like to see her."

"Do you have any idea what she would do to me if I kept the two of you apart?" Phil asked incredulously. "She's in the kitchen. Go."

"She's going to ruffle my hair," Fitz said in a resigned tone as he left the room. "I hate it when she does that."

* * *

Skye came into the room like a whirlwind, dropping into the chair to Jemma's right and giving her a huge grin. "So, how about some bad-girl shenanigans?"

"_No_," Jemma replied with a quiet laugh, pushing her plate away. "Not today, Skye." She gave her a hesitant look. "You read my file?"

"Yes," Skye admitted, looking shamefaced. "It pissed the hell out of May."

Jemma wasn't sure that May was irritated so much on her behalf as on Phil's. "Ward was-"

She paused, searching for the right word.

"Ward-like?" Skye suggested. "Robotesque? Totally awkward? Yeah, sounds like Ward. He took it badly," she said honestly. "Personally, even. You know how he gets, all big-brotherish."

Jemma nodded slowly. It made a certain amount of sense. "And Fitz?"

"Ask him yourself." Skye nodded her head at the door behind them. "I brought him with me."

Really, Jemma should have expected that. She turned, meeting Fitz's gaze. His hair was longer- not out of control, but a bit untidy. He was giving her that self-conscious smile she occasionally saw out of him when he was in a particularly unorthodox situation.

He had never wanted to join a mobile unit; he had only gone because she had convinced him to. She felt a sudden pang of guilt for inadvertently dragging him into hiding, leaving behind a family that was either still waiting for bad news or perhaps had already carved a headstone. "Hello, Fitz."

"Hello, Jemma." He took the free chair to her left and pointed at her ring. "Beat me to the punch, did he?"

"You know what they say," she replied lightly, and he gave her a genuine grin.

"And what would that be?"

"If you liked it then you should have put a ring on it," she said sweetly, and Skye cackled in delight.

"A+ bad-girl response, Jem," she commented after a moment of laughter, flashing two thumbs up. "Inspired."

Jemma did feel rather proud of herself for that one. "Have you built anything interesting lately?" she asked, and he shrugged.

"Been working on the dwarves. Hard to invent anything truly brilliant without a dedicated space." He grinned. "Though I have had some excellent ideas."

He began outlining his latest obsession- an iron man suit, but for monkeys (he never would change, bless him)- while Skye interposed comments designed to purposefully rile him. They had developed a rapport in her absence that gladdened her. He was well and at ease as the three of them bantered, and she mentally crossed one item off of her too-long list.

They stood to leave roughly an hour later. "Our turn to make dinner," Skye explained. "May gets grumpy when her blood sugar drops. Grumpier," she amended after a moment's thought.

"Well," Jemma said, giving Skye a brief hug, "see you tomorrow?" She faced Fitz and held out her arms in invitation, and he accepted it.

He didn't smell right, she realized in the space of a second. Not that he smelled wrong- he smelled perfectly nice- but he no longer smelled _right_to her. His touch no longer sparked a faint sense of excitement or longing. Instead, it was just what it was- an embrace between friends.

She was still quite fond of him, but there was a distance between them now. It was not a brutal severing of their closeness, but rather a natural drifting apart born by time and sheer space. They had gone from being nearly one person to two different individuals, and she thought they would be the better for it.

Jemma ruffled his hair as he pulled away, and he gave her an irritated look.

"Can't you leave my hair alone, Jemma? Skye's been bad enough to deal with. She keeps trying to put all manner of potions in it."

"Gel," Skye said defensively. "A little bit of styling gel wouldn't kill you."

"How do you know?" he replied, gesturing emphatically. "Do you ever pay attention to the ingredient list on those forsaken things?"

They left, arguing companionably, and Jemma locked the door behind them. She found Phil in their bedroom, sitting propped up against the headboard. There was a tattered paperback in his hands. "Just us again," she told him when he looked up from his book, and sat next to his feet. "I was thinking of taking a nap."

"I wouldn't mind a nap." He put aside his book as she crawled into the space between him and the wall. Curious, she sniffed the side of his neck and almost instantly felt more settled.

"Are you smelling me?" he asked in a perplexed, if amused, tone, one hand stroking her hair.

"You smell right," she said brightly, and sniffed his skin again. "Safe and arousing and… right."

"Thank you," he replied after a moment, and unexpectedly shifted, pressing his face to the crook of her neck. "I think I see what you mean," he said, his voice muffled, and she felt him kiss her throat. "How interesting."

"Aren't you tired?" she asked teasingly, her heartbeat quickening when he kissed the spot just below her ear.

"Not entirely," he replied, but pulled back all the same. "You should sleep."

She didn't particularly want to anymore, or at least not quite yet. She was more in a mood to be seduced, gently and thoroughly, until she was no longer certain of her own name. "Perhaps we could dance for a bit instead?" she said with a soft smile. "After a fashion, I mean."

He searched her face for any trace of uncertainty, and finally returned her smile. "I'm always happy to dance with you in any fashion." He gathered her close and kissed her, stroking her cheek with the knuckles of one hand. "Your hair smells like roses and honey," he murmured as he pulled the elastic gently from her hair, and drew his fingers through the loosened strands. "I like it."

"I'll keep that in mind." She kissed him again, pulling him half on top of her as they lay in the pool of sunlight coming through the window.

He seemed to instinctively guess what she wanted, because his touch was gentle and deliberate as he eased her out of her clothing, slowly working his way down her body until she lay in only her underwear. He bent to kiss her stomach, his slight stubble tickling her skin.

He lifted his head to meet her gaze, his thumbs stroking along the flare of her hips. "You'll never be the same," he said, and settled between her legs to rest his chin on the lower curve of her belly. "You'll be better."

"How do you know that?"

"You made me better," he said simply. "I'm no Jemma Simmons, but I'll do my best."

He leaned into her hand when she stroked his cheek. "I've always been a big fan of Phil Coulson."

"Death did not improve your taste in men, I see," was his only response, looking pleased when she laughed.

It was slow and sweet and everything she wanted, sparking nerve endings and flooding her with endorphins. At first she found herself noting every one of her physical reactions in an effort to remind herself that everything was as it should be in a living body, her mind detailing the intricate play that was the interaction between the central nervous system and the release of pleasure-bearing neurotransmitters.

"Do you need me to stop?" he asked at one point. "You're thinking very hard."

"No." She met his gaze and smiled, pulling him in for a kiss. "Keep going," she said, and abandoned herself to sensation without analyzation.

The aftermath found her sprawled loose-limbed and sated, his head resting against her chest. Her mind was still pleasantly blurred, a lovely change from the hyper-attentive concentration that was her norm.

"I love being alive with you," she said quietly, stroking his hair.

She could feel him smiling against her skin, and the barest flick of his eyelashes when he blinked. "The feeling is quite mutual."

* * *

_Notes: "Communism is just a red herring." - Clue_


	17. Conium maculatum and laurus nobilis

_I'm tired of entwining me garlands_  
_Of weather-worn hemlock and bay._  
_I'm over my longing for far lands-_  
_I wouldn't give that for Cathay._  
-"Pour Prendre Congé," Dorothy Parker

"Do you promise not to call me Simmons?" Jemma asked him teasingly the next day as they prepared to leave to meet the others. "I'm not sure what to expect from you, if you slip back into agent mode."

"I doubt I could switch back to Simmons at this point." He caught her around the waist and pulled her toward him. "I'm much more likely to slip and call you something sentimental."

"Can you even run a briefing without wearing a suit?" She leaned in, her lips centimeters from his own. "How will we know who to call 'Sir' if you aren't wearing a tie?" She evaded him playfully when he made a move to kiss her. "That was a serious question, Phil."

"I've been finding my tie-less existence rather liberating," he answered her. He had spent so long playing the besuited company man that wearing more casual attire had at first almost been uncomfortable- he had, after all, done nearly everything in a suit for many years, up to and including dying- but he had become quite fond of dressing down. "That being said, if you should ever feel a desire to dress up and have a night on the town, I would gladly put on a suit."

"I am going to take you up on that offer," she declared, her arms around his neck. "I look forward to getting you out of it afterward."

The playful look on her face slipped away, replaced by that earnest sweetness so characteristic to Jemma. He was glad to see her smiling and teasing again, though she was obviously still shaken by their discovery just two days past. "Are you ready?" he asked her quietly, and after a moment she nodded.

"Yes." She took in a deep breath and gave him a slight smile. "I'll take that kiss, now. For luck."

It always felt rather like a revelation, kissing Jemma. She fit so neatly against him and was always so very present and focused, as if she were memorizing every second. This time was no different as she curved softly against him, her lips clinging to his. She dropped her head to his shoulder when they parted, her eyes closed.

"What is there even to talk about?" she asked softly. "We don't know anything. We don't have anywhere to go."

She was right. Their contacts had dropped off one by one- whether permanently, or whether they were simply off the grid as well, was hard to determine- and they knew next to nothing about the circumstances. He felt as if they were reaching the end of the line, and it was tempting to hide away with her while they still could.

"We can't give up this easily." For all of his fears, his end-game was clear. If there was any possible way to make their way back to the house in Lima, free of interference, he was going to find it. He was tired of seeing the faint shadows of fear in Jemma's eyes; tired of sleeping in these impersonal rooms, never knowing when they would have to grab everything and run.

"I know." She lifted her head and kissed him again, quickly, before pulling out of his arms. "Don't snap at May; she's just worried about you."

"She doesn't need to be."

"You have a history together," she replied. "She may not admit it, but she cares about you. If she's irritated with me, it's most likely because she's worried that I'll cause you pain, in one way or another."

He could see that kind of behavior coming from the old May, who had reacted to offenses to her friends like a lioness protecting her cubs. The post-Bahrain May, who was still secretive, even with him- well, perhaps Jemma was right. May hadn't lost that protectiveness, she had just tucked it further away.

"She obviously hasn't been paying very much attention to you, then," he replied dryly, and she gave him a sad smile.

"It doesn't have anything to do with my character, Phil- or very little, anyway. Maybe she was worried that my-" she hesitated, taking a breath- "my incident would be too painful for you, given your history. Or maybe she worries you would do something foolish if something else were to happen to me. You're a protector yourself, Phil."

Her smile this time was genuine. "A caretaker. Even Natasha said so."

"Is that such a bad thing?" he asked, a bit perplexed.

"You never stop to take care of yourself." She picked up her bag, and then laid a hand against his cheek. "Promise me you'll take care of yourself."

If that meant saving his own life at the expense of her own, he had no intention of making any such promise. "May is a fool if she thinks I wouldn't move heaven and earth to keep you safe."

Jemma looked simultaneously disconcerted and appreciative of this statement. "That's very romantic, Phil, but I would prefer if we avoided any Romeo and Juliet-esque dramatics." She brushed back her hair, moving toward their bedroom door. "That being said, I would do the same thing for you, and don't you dare stop me."

He was half a step behind her, close enough to smell her perfume and to lay a gentle hand on her back. "I like taking care of you." It was an honest statement. He enjoyed seeing to her comfort and well-being in a myriad of different ways. It satisfied him on a deep level to make her happy, whether it was with a joke, a meal, or the caress of his hands against her skin. He wanted to see her relaxed and content, free from care.

She turned, her back against the door, and took his hands. "I like taking care of you, too. It isn't a contest."

"Does it feel like one?"

She shook her head. "No. You're even careful about how you take care of people. Your techniques are very advanced." She gave him a teasing smile. "Level eight caretaking techniques, perhaps."

He chuckled, placing his hands on either side of her head. "Really."

"Was there a seminar? Perhaps when you had all your other seminars?"

He moved in closer. "And what seminars would those be?"

"Hmmm." She tipped her head back, as if considering a long list. "Advanced weapons techniques, obviously."

"Obviously."

"Defensive driving with a flying car."

"That, too." He felt a small pang, thinking about Lola, but he had seen Jemma in red lace, and no car could compare to that.

"Sexual techniques."

He answered without even thinking about the actual question. "Yes- wait." He pressed her against the door as she giggled. "Say that again, Jemma."

"Your level eight sexual techniques. Was there a seminar?" she asked, still laughing.

"Jemma," he said seriously, giving her his best Coulson-in-control expression even as he pressed his hips against her own. "The first rule of the level eight sexual technique seminar is that you never talk about the level eight sexual technique seminar."

"Is that so?" she said, her fingers brushing lightly against the back of his neck. "I hope you'll continue to let me be part of the practicum, at least."

"Who else would I pick as my lab partner?"

"Good." She wriggled slightly, flushed and smiling. "We're going to be late."

An unfortunate fact. He backed away from her with a small smile. "Perhaps we could pick this back up later. I have a few hypotheses I'd like to test."

"I'm always happy to assist in scientific inquiry," she replied cheekily, and was out the door in a matter of seconds.

* * *

As Jemma had expected, the meeting at May's turned into a rehash of what they already knew, which was precious little, and the longer the meeting went on the more irritated everyone became.

Jemma escaped into the kitchen claiming a sudden need for tea, and leaned back against the counter as the kettle heated on the stove. It was quieter here, at least, though she could still hear the fierce debate going on in the living room. Knowing Fitz he had devised some kind of method to soundproof the entire apartment, or she hoped he had, anyway. If not, they were breaking their cover in a very dramatic fashion.

"Do you need any help?" Ward asked, appearing in the doorway. He took a few steps into the room before stopping, looking hesitant.

"No, thank you." She gave him a smile, remembering Skye's words. "It's just very loud, in there."

"We're all on our last nerves."

She stiffened automatically, and from the look on his face she could tell that he wanted to rewind the last ten seconds. "No, that's not what I meant, Jemma," he said. "It's not your fault. We should have done something earlier- we should have at least tried to visit." The guilt was clear on his face. "We let ourselves be distracted by work, and you paid for it."

"I didn't have to go," she replied after a moment. "It was an invitation, not an order. I certainly never guessed it would end as it did."

He shook his head. "As soon as it became clear that you weren't responding to any of Fitz's calls or emails, that's when we should have been there."

And how different a path that would have been. She would only have spent a few weeks in her cell, perhaps. Could they have gotten away with it? If the entire team had shown up in the early days, before the doctors had found anything of real substance, would she have just ended up on the Bus again, shaken and sleeping alone in her tiny little pod?

"There are good things about this life," she said finally, and pulled two mugs out of a cabinet when the kettle began to boil. "I can't bring myself to regret it, not really." She glanced over her shoulder at him. "Tea?"

He nodded, and took a seat at the table. "You really love him," he said quietly as she arranged teabags and poured water, and her smile was irrepressible.

"I really do."

The argument was dying down when they returned to the living room, though it was clear from everyone's expressions that no one felt as if they had emerged the victor.

"I'm going," Natasha was saying stubbornly when they entered. "Fury may have gone off the grid, but I can find him. It's time we discovered how much he really knows."

"You're right, Nat," Clint replied patiently. "I'm going with you."

She shook her head. "No. They need you here."

"Hardly," he shot back. "What if Loki shows up? He might not have his scepter, but who knows what kind of other tech he's gotten his hands on, and then I'm a liability to everyone. Let me come with you. You have my permission to kick me in the balls if he hits me with his voodoo again."

"I'm not sure that would be very effective against alien mesmerism," she replied dryly.

"Probably not, but it would make you feel better." Clint sat back in his chair, his expression determined. "I'm going, end of story."

"He's right," Phil interjected before Natasha could protest. "He goes, and the rest of us will wait."

"No."

Everyone turned to to face Jemma, Natasha nodding slightly, as if she had expected this turn of events.

"I'm going, too," Jemma said, crossing her arms, both terrified and absolutely certain of herself. "I'm tired of running. This ends now, one way or another." Her decision obviously did not please Phil, which did not surprise her in the least. "The rest of the team should stay here, or go elsewhere; I don't care. But if anyone is going to talk to Fury, it's going to be me."

"I think she's right," Clint said into the ensuing silence. "No more middle-men. If Jemma wants to go straight to the source, I'm behind her all the way."

Phil shot him a glare, and Clint shrugged in response. "You know she's right, Phil. You wouldn't like her half as much if she were meek and self-effacing."

Phil rubbed a hand across his forehead, looking pained, but when he finally met her gaze his expression was that of resigned acceptance. "You're right, Jemma." He gave her a small smile. "I'm going, too."

"As if we could get away with leaving you behind," Clint muttered.

The others exchanged glances, and finally Skye shrugged. "You'll need us," she said firmly. "We don't have to come with you, but you'll need Fitz and I on the other end of the line. If Fury's gone off the grid, he's gone deep. We'll be your dedicated tech team."

Natasha gave a quiet laugh. "When this is all over, I'm going to introduce you to Stark." She turned to Clint. "Do you think that would make up for the birthday present I missed?"

"You missed Christmas, too," he replied in all due seriousness, and she nodded.

"That's why I'll also be introducing him to Jemma."

"Fair enough."

"I like the idea of this," Skye said, leaning back in her chair with a grin. "I bet Stark pays a hell of a lot more than being a SHIELD agent. The benefits are probably excellent."

"As in, there are benefits," Clint replied. "I don't know if you've noticed, but SHIELD's dental insurance is crap if the damage wasn't done on the job."

Phil shook his head in warning. "He will show up at your doorstep at two in the morning and demand shawarma. You will never be free of him."

"Have you ever considered that he might just enjoy tormenting you?" May asked, the barest hint of a smile on her face. "Perhaps you're just special, Phil."

"I think we should call him," Natasha said with a shrug, settling back into her chair. "He has more money than JK Rowling and he doesn't give a damn what SHIELD thinks about him. Let's join forces."

"I-" Phil began, and she cut him off.

"And while we're at it, we should also call Bruce and Steve and Thor, if we can get ahold of him."

"Bruce?" Clint asked skeptically. "He'll take one look at Jemma's file and let the big guy out to play."

"Steve, then, at the very least." Natasha caught Phil's gaze. "Come on, Phil. As the resident Cap expert-"

He rolled his eyes, and she continued unabated. "-you have to admit that this is the kind of mission he would go for. It hits all his buttons: freedom, damsels in distress- yes, Jemma, I _know_ that you are hardly incapable of defending yourself, but he is rather old-fashioned."

"He's disillusioned with SHIELD," Clint said quietly, looking down at his hands as the room stilled. "He was after New York, and he still was when last we spoke. Disillusioned with this new America, really."

"Not surprising," Skye said. "He missed the Cold War and the dawn of the glorious age of government surveillance."

"Skye, you make your living surveilling people," Ward commented dryly, and she raised her hands in a what-can-you-do kind of gesture.

"SHIELD doesn't own the Avengers." Natasha looked around the room, catching everyone's eyes. "And isn't this what we're supposed to do? Can we let this kind of behavior go on unquestioned? Maybe it was just that one little piece of sci-ops that went bad, but maybe not."

"I might not have been the only one," Jemma said quietly. "Though if there were others, they would have had to hide them very quickly." She smiled slightly. "As I understand it, the damage done to that particular building was rather extensive."

Clint's smile in return was sharp. "Nat is very good at setting things on fire." He sobered quickly. "You were the only one on that hall, Jem. The only other people we saw in that building were guards and staff."

Her tolerance for the conversation reached an abrupt end. "Excuse me," she said, feeling brittle and entirely unlike herself, and escaped back into the kitchen.

She wasn't surprised when Phil appeared mere seconds later. "I won't try and talk you out of going," he said as soon as he walked into the room. "You're right, and you should be one of the first to know what he has to say."

"You would wrap me up in cotton wool if you could," she commented, brushing a few stray grains of salt off of the table. "I understand why, but this has to be done."

He sat beside her at the table, looking torn. "Jemma- if things go badly-"

"I've already spoken with Natasha," she replied quietly, patting his hand. "You're not allowed to get upset with her if the worst comes to pass, Phil. I'm willing to put up with a great deal, but I won't go back into SHIELD custody."

He sat back, and from his expression she wished that they had kept this conversation for a later, more private occasion. She feared that she might have just broken his heart. "Am I being selfish?" she asked, knowing that she was.

"No, Jemma." He shook his head slowly. "I just can't bring myself to consider the possibility."

"I can't not." The idea shook her as much as it had shaken him, and in the wake of the latest revelation death was even more terrifying. "I just can't look over my shoulder for the rest of our lives, Phil. I can't live that way."

"Let me bargain with Stark, then." He leaned forward in his seat, grasping her hand. "You were right, and Natasha is right- he would protect us, and he would enjoy telling SHIELD to fuck off in the process."

"It's certainly worth a try." She looked around the room, her gaze finally returning to him. He was wearing the look he typically wore when everything had gone topsy-turvy, that fierce determination masked by such utter blandness it verged on uncanny. She wasn't entirely sure when she had first been able to dissect his most guarded expressions, but she knew his emotional layers, now, and she could tell that he would not be dissuaded from this course. "Are we done for the day?" she asked, laying her other hand atop their clasped ones. He really was very susceptible to cuddling; if she could get him back to their room and strip a few layers off of him she might be able to calm him down.

He gave her a knowing look. "I think so. Planning on working your magic on me?"

"Hardly magic. It's a simple biological fact." She smiled brightly. "Peace, quiet, and the warmth of skin to skin contact. Slows the heart right down."

"Until it doesn't," he replied dryly. "Take me home, then. I'm at your disposal."

The little apartment was hardly home, but for the first time in her life Jemma was beginning to understand the cliché about home being where the heart was. Phil's heart, in particular- its steady, miraculous beat was her favorite rhythm.

They said their goodbyes, arranging to meet again the next morning to finalize the various details. If all went to plan, they would leave the morning after next in search of Tony Stark.

Classes were ending for the week when they left May's apartment, the sidewalks flooded with chattering students heading home bearing armloads of books. Even their own quiet street, as they approached it, rang with the noise of a multitude of people happy to toss aside their studies for a few hours.

"Hopefully the louder parties will be elsewhere," Phil said in amusement. "Though this is likely a futile hope."

Their own apartment was quiet enough, and utterly empty upon close inspection. "Will you at least feed me before you lull me into a tranquil daze?" Phil asked, and she laughed and pushed him toward the bedroom.

"Yes. Go."

She was in the kitchen chopping vegetables when a hand landed on her shoulder from behind. In an instant she knew that it was not Phil, though he was the only other person in the apartment: the grip was too firm, too impersonal. She suspected that it would leave a deep bruise, and in the seconds it took her to turn with knife in hand- too slowly, much too slowly- her heart stuttered in a sudden, strange rhythm.

A part of her was not surprised to find Loki behind her. If anyone could have appeared without warning, it would be him. She raised the knife instinctively, and in one quick move he disarmed her, the blade clattering to the floor.

"That will serve well enough as an introduction," he said as she pressed herself back against the counter, her right hand searching behind her for another weapon. "I believe we're both acquainted with the other." He held out his hand impatiently. "I have need of your… expertise," he continued, his mouth twisting as he pronounced the last word. "Come."

"No, thank you," she replied as calmly as possible, though panic was flooding her body with adrenaline. He stood between her and the door, and from the way he moved she knew he would have her in seconds if she attempted to flee. "I would prefer to stay here."

He tilted his head slightly to the side, looking amused by her reply. "Let me rephrase my request. You either come willingly with me now, or I will put another spear through that man's heart." He gestured toward the door with a smirk. She could hear Phil moving beyond, his footsteps unhurried. Under any other circumstances he would have heard raised voices and the clatter of the knife to the floor, but somehow Loki was cloaking their conversation. "And after I'm done with that, you will be coming with me anyway. Which scenario do you choose?"

The choice was obvious, but she hesitated, knowing too well what Phil's response would be if she simply disappeared. She hoped he would at least have the sense to find the others before charging off to fight dragons.

"They won't be able to patch that tattered heart together again," Loki murmured. "Give me your hand, Jemma."

She did so with a shaking breath, and the world spun out of place, pulling her into darkness.

* * *

_Notes: Many thanks to Selmak for allowing me to use her joke about level eight sexual techniques._


	18. Nelumbo nucifera

_but a kind of yearning has hold of me- to die_  
_and to look upon the dewy lotus bank_  
_of Acheron_  
-Sappho (Carson)

It was the distinct lack of sound that struck him, and at first he thought Jemma had merely gotten caught up in her thoughts and had stilled where she stood. It was the way the silence continued, empty, echoing, and somehow louder than any noise, that told him something had gone very, very wrong.

He crossed the short space between the bedroom and the kitchen at a run, already knowing that the apartment was empty of Jemma's warm presence. There would be no worried frown for him when he came into the room at top speed, no lover to kiss desperately in the wake of false fear.

It was as he expected: no Jemma, no enemy agents, no evidence of a struggle other than the knife lying on the floor. The blade, at least, was not blood-stained, which was a small consolation when its mere presence shook him to the core.

"Jemma?" he called, knowing it was futile even as he hastened to the front door. The hall beyond was bare and peaceful. He searched the other rooms from top to bottom in quick succession, finding nothing other than a light coating of dust in the corners and under the beds. None of the locks on the door or on the windows had been forced, and yet the apartment had been secure when they had returned not ten minutes ago. There was only one person who could have accomplished this, and the last time Phil had seen him in the flesh had been on the helicarrier that fateful day above New York.

There was no room for panic and grief amidst the cold rage that gripped him now. He knew that the mental barricades would fade, eventually, but until then he would take advantage of this stark clarity. It would do him no good to rush in this situation, when careful planning and attention to detail were of a greater benefit than speed. It was this knowledge that kept him from running out the door and darting conspicuously through the crowd of students until he made his way back to the other apartment. Instead, he quickly packed his necessary belongings in a small bag, layering them on top of Jemma's file and IDs, as well as several changes of clothing for her. She would need her things when he found her- and he refused to imagine any scenario in which he did not find her, alive and well- and he instinctively grabbed the items that he recognized as her favorites.

That was the moment he found the most difficult, when he laid his hands on the soft cotton and linen of her clothing and smelled the slightest trace of her perfume caught in the fabric. He had to use all of his training to push aside the emotions aroused by this hollow imitation of her presence. Anger was safer than heartbreak, and less debilitating than despair.

He was careful to take his time as he made his way back along the streets that bordered the university, though the slow pace chafed at him, and he knew from the way other people edged away that he was not being entirely successful in his attempt to appear calm and unhurried.

His patience had worn away by the time he reached his allies, and the way he pounded on the door of the other apartment could not have been mistaken for anything other than the dire warning that it was. The look on Clint's face even as he opened the door was already that of utter seriousness, and he swore the moment he caught a glimpse of Phil's furious expression.

"Move," Phil told him tersely, and Clint stepped aside only to punch the wall.

"Where's Jemma?" Fitz asked, scrambling to his feet in panic. "How the fuck could you lose her in less than an hour?"

"Loki," Phil replied through gritted teeth. "Plans have changed. We're leaving now."

Natasha already had her phone out. "Screw subtlety. I'll get our ride." She paused, listening for the pick-up on the other end, and then said, "Stark, this is Natasha. How would you like to break a number of federal and international laws?"

* * *

"Midgardians are so fragile," she heard Loki sigh, and she realized that she had blacked out. Opening her eyes, she found herself in the middle of nowhere, just an expanse of dry, mountainous desert. "Get up; you're embarrassing yourself."

"So sorry to inconvenience you," she replied, coughing as she sat up. She felt as if she had been dragged through a hedge backward and then tossed against a wall for good measure. Cheek wasn't advisable in this situation, but the filter she usually relied on seemed to have been shaken loose. "What is it you need me for, exactly?"

"I'm led to believe that you are passingly intelligent." He gave her an expression that might have been charming, were it not for the words he had just said. "And an expert in what passes for science in this world."

"There are other biochemists," she said, standing on shaky legs. "Why me?"

"Ahh," he said with a smile, "imagine my surprise when I checked in on this world, only to find a certain man still among the living. Of course, I wanted to know why and how, and the answer was so _very_ interesting."

Jemma had been slowly inching away, but she stilled at this. "How? How did they do it?"

"Yes, you would like to know, wouldn't you?" He walked slowly around her, every step that of a predator circling prey. "The dead woman in love with the dead man. The stuff miracles are made of. Worthy of song, even."

"Are you going to tell me, or do you just plan on posturing for the next few hours?" The filter hadn't slipped, it appeared to have disappeared entirely. "Should I sit back down?"

He grinned. "I like you. Fearless. Broken. Attractive, for a human."

Jemma suspected that he had called her broken in an attempt to wound her, but she couldn't bring herself to argue with his choice of words. She had been broken once, but it had been a temporary state. She could almost hear Phil's voice in her ear murmuring about the art of kintsukuroi, of shattered ceramic mended at the seams with pure gold.

"Come then," he said, turning his back to her so casually that it was almost insulting. "Let me show you what restarted your puny little brain."

"And then?" she asked quietly, following him across the terrain.

"It depends on my mood. A certain group expressed a great deal of interest in seeing you again."

Breathing became temporarily difficult in the wake of those words, and he turned with a sly smile. "I thought I would try diplomacy this time around, and what surprising results it garnered. A pity your Director Fury wasn't present to meet with me."

"He's not _my_ Director Fury," she corrected, catching up with him. "I don't work for SHIELD anymore."

"No, you've been nesting like a lovebird. Or- how does it go, in this world?- 'shagging like rabbits'?" He appeared delighted. The whole conversation was rather like interacting with a homicidal Mad Hatter. "I admit that your colloquialisms are quite fascinating. Such color! Such imagination! Very impressive."

In the distance she saw what appeared to be a bunker door set into the earth, but they were nowhere she recognized. "Is this a SHIELD facility?"

"Hardly," he replied. "No, I learned about this place from other sources. That being said, SHIELD has made use of one particular product from this facility at least twice in the past." He eyed her. "I've seen the recordings. It has quite the kick, so it would seem. You both begged to die, at one point or another."

She stopped in her tracks as the full impact of his words hit her, but he gave her only a few seconds respite before grabbing her upper arm and hauled her forcibly along. "Come. We have a barricade to storm and secrets to uncover."

She had not felt quite this level of despair since before her rescue, and now she felt its full force, unimpeded by a drugged haze. "You're going to give me to them, aren't you?"

"Not necessarily. Do what I ask of you, and I will take you back to that man you seem to love so desperately. I'll even let him live in the bargain. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she replied when she could once again speak. "Yes, I understand."

"Excellent." He stopped and let her go. "I trust you can walk by yourself?"

"Yes."

"Very good." He turned and continued to walk toward the bunker. "Don't dawdle."

* * *

"I cannot believe you bastards ran off to South America to party with a dead man and didn't invite me," Tony Stark said as Phil stalked past him onto the jet. "I thought we were friends, Barton."

"No, not really," Clint replied shortly. "One shawarma date does not a friendship make."

"I'm hurt. Wounded. I have been betrayed." Tony narrowed his eyes as the others boarded the jet. "You picked up strays? You replaced me with a bunch of well-muscled scrappers?" He paused, considering Fitz. "And one lean backstabber, I can only assume."

"We're AC's team," Skye explained as the doors were shut. "Until he ran off to South America without us, that is."

"Ah hah!" Tony said triumphantly. "At least I wasn't the only one kept out of the loop."

Phil had been pacing as the others bantered, too wound-up to do anything other than move. The fury was burning off into panic, his memories of Loki's last destructive rampage all too clear. "Get this plane off the ground, Stark. We have to find Fury."

"He speaks!" Tony said wryly, turning to face him. "I thought we were going after Loki, Agent, not tracking down the pirate of the Matrix."

"Loki met with SHIELD," Natasha explained. "We don't know where he is, but Fury might."

"Do you know where Fury is?" Tony asked.

"Not exactly," she replied with a shrug. "But I should know by the time we get there."

"And there is…"

"Iceland."

Tony sighed, and turned to the cockpit. "Jerry, set a course for Iceland." He turned back to them. "I fucking hate Iceland."

Natasha and Skye settled in the back of the cabin to pin down Fury's location, Skye making appreciative noises as she examined the equipment Stark made available to them. Phil wanted to join them- he wanted to do something other than sit around, listening to Stark talk endlessly- but he would only be in the way of the two far superior hackers, and they wouldn't appreciate it if he spent the entire flight hovering behind them.

"So, did you come back from the grave with all your parts attached?" Tony asked him, gesturing somewhat lewdly. "Everything still in working order?"

Phil merely glared in return.

"Calm down, Stark," he heard Clint mutter. "You don't want to set him off, not now."

"Has he gone all Banner on us?" Unsurprisingly, Stark sounded rather excited by this. "Why the sudden appearance, anyway? The two of you go off the grid for months, and suddenly Romanov is on the other end of the line, asking for a ride as casually as someone would ask for a lift to the corner store."

Clint glanced cagily at Phil, who lifted a shoulder slightly in response. "Loki made off with one of our companions. A woman named Jemma Simmons."

"Is she pretty?" Tony asked immediately, and gave a startled yelp when Fitz smacked the back of his head.

"Irrelevant, you gawping dobber," he swore, and May raised a brow. "She's brilliant and beautiful and sweet as can be, and you'd be lucky to kiss her shoes."

Even Natasha and Skye glanced up at this, and there was a moment of silence as everyone gave Fitz a considering look.

"Not quite over it, Fitz?" Ward asked dryly.

The Glaswegian curses Fitz leveled at him were impressive in their range and their physical impossibility, and only the fact that Phil was worried about much more important things kept him from worrying about the fact that Fitz was _definitely_ still mad about losing Jemma.

"Girlfriend?" Tony asked the group at large as Fitz stormed out of the main cabin.

"No," Phil growled in response, and Tony gave him an almost blank stare.

"Obviously we have to rescue this woman," he said finally, "if only so I can see what it takes to get that kind of reaction from both Agent and a walking Scottish teddy bear." He picked up a bottle of scotch from the nearby bar. "Anyone want a drink?"

* * *

"How was the drive from Istanbul?" a calm male voice asked them over the intercom, and Loki gave her an expectant look.

"This is really not my area of expertise," she replied quietly, nervously scrubbing her damp palms against the fabric of her trousers.

"I suggest that it become your area of expertise quite quickly," he said coolly.

"How was the drive from Istanbul?" came the question again.

She closed her eyes, trying to think through the panic. What could possibly be the expected response? What could-

"Don't you mean Constantinople?" she asked suddenly, her eyes opening as the words tumbled from her lips.

There was a pause, and just as she feared that the most obvious answer was not, after all, correct, the doors creaked open.

"Very good," Loki said in mild praise, and patted her on the head. She flinched as his hand made contact with her scalp, but the touch was gentle enough, if entirely unwelcome. "Onwards."

They were met at the bottom of the stairs by two guards, who eyed them with practiced disinterest. It was clear that they had been trained to allow anyone with the correct response inside the bunker, no matter how odd or unexpected the visitor. "How may we help you, sir?" one asked deferentially.

"We have need of your facility. We may be here for a few days." Loki swept past the guards with Jemma in tow, and they merely nodded in reply, apparently uncaring that Jemma was obviously not there of her own free will.

He pulled her down a long series of hallways, and it was only when they were deep under the mountain that he stopped outside of an unmarked door. She didn't question how he knew where to go, but hadn't known what the correct password had been. He wouldn't tell her, in any case, and that particular mystery was the least of her problems.

"And to think you humans accused me of being cruel," he said as they walked into the lab, the first words he had said in nearly five minutes. "The kind of torture your little brains come up with is really quite amazing."

She glanced into the refrigerated units they passed, noting the number of vials within marked with a familiar name. "GH325?" she asked. "Is that…?"

"What brought air back into your lungs? Yes." He pushed aside a stack of boxes, and there, in front of them: T.A.H.I.T.I.

"_Oh_," she heard herself say softly. _So this is Tahiti._

"Does it mean something to you?" he asked sharply, his hand on the door handle.

"It's an island in the Pacific," she answered.

"Yes," he replied slowly, with an impatient look on his face. "I'm sure it is. What _else_ is it?"

She hesitated before answering, unsure if imparting this information would count as a betrayal. "It's where Phil thought he was, when he was recuperating," she said finally, deciding that Phil wouldn't thank her for antagonizing Loki over trifles. "False memories."

"Fascinating." He pulled open the door and drew her after him into the room beyond. "Are you ready to meet your savior?"

"I don't suppose I have a choice."

"No," he replied, and pulled the incubator into the light.

She was silent for a moment as she took in the sight before her, her eyes tracing the tubing that fed from the alien's severed torso to the equipment in the room itself. "Is it in the blood?" she asked, forcibly pulling herself into some semblance of professionalism. "What manner of creature is he?"

"A Kree." He seemed almost gleeful now. "They're a very advanced species. I wish I knew how they obtained one."

"This isn't a SHIELD facility, though," she said absently, leaning down to examine the decomposing torso more thoroughly. "Are you sure?"

"I have that on assurance from Heimdall."

She gave him a blank look, and he shook his head in exasperation. Loki stepped back from the incubator and waved his hand, the gesture taking in the room and the lab beyond. "This is what I need you for. I want you to tell me how they created their miracle cure, and I want you to tell me why it works." He gave her a sharp smile. "And I want to know how to replicate it."

She could hardly see why a god would have need of this kind of serum, but the look in his eyes told her that questions would not be welcome at this particular moment.

"Can you do that for me, Jemma?" he asked her, stepping too close for comfort, and she averted her eyes.

"Yes," she said hesitantly, and rubbed her thumb against her rings. That she had the knowledge and the skill was beyond question, even to her mind. It was the moral ramifications of actually aiding him that worried at her now. Even if he were to take her results and disappear from Earth entirely, her work would still have a massive effect on some other world- and that was assuming the serum would work on a being other than a human.

Even if it worked in exactly the same fashion, she couldn't shake the memory of his expression when he had referenced the vicious impact of the serum on the human body. She did not remember her own resurrection, but she believed that she could have pled for death without succor, just as Phil had once described to her the way that he had begged for death.

Her moral code told her that the serum had to be destroyed, and its formula with it. Logic and probability told her that it would likely be her last act of free will. He would kill her for doing so, or would hand her back to the rogue section of sci-ops and let them finish the job.

"Yes," she said again, more confidently, and met his gaze. She let some far braver version of Jemma speak for her, a version that could spin a flawless lie without anyone being the wiser. "I can do that."

Yes, she could do everything he asked and more- which was exactly why she intended on leading him astray for as long as possible, sabotaging this entire operation in the process.

"Excellent," he said with a smile, and walked toward the door that led to the hallway beyond. "I'll check on you in a few hours, shall I?"

"I doubt I can give you the answers you want in that amount of time," she replied, allowing him to see the expected spike of panic.

"Of course not. Don't fret; I will ensure that we have no other visitors while you work." He slammed the door to the hall behind him, and she heard the echoing thump of a thrown bolt.

Jemma took a moment to collect herself, allowing her eyes to close as she leaned against one of the counters. When she felt as if she had obtained some semblance of calm- and it was a very shaky, shoddy kind of calm- she took stock of the lab around her.

The equipment was outdated, at least compared to the standard equipment used in SHIELD laboratories. It would serve well enough for her purposes, though she briefly considered telling him that she needed better equipment. He might take it in stride and indulge her, or he might inform her to make do. In the end, she decided against commenting on the state of the various apparati. If she kept him here, he would cause as little destruction as possible to the outside world, and if she caused him as little trouble as possible, it would only buy her more time.

It was almost soothing, slipping back into her old role as a biochemist, surrounded by familiar, if dusty, equipment. She began by seeking out cleaning supplies, which she found in a small cabinet near the door. A clean lab was a sterile lab, and a sterile lab would produce the best results- or so she would tell Loki if he should come in to find her scrubbing the counters. The repetitive, mindless work cleared her mind, allowing her to consider the logistics of the work ahead. He would expect to see some kind of progress from her, and that would require actually working with the samples already available. She would analyze the GH325, which would at least satisfy her own curiosity. She would take samples from the alien in the tank for testing, which would have the added benefit of "accidentally" contaminating the specimen.

It struck her, suddenly, the significance of the number on the vials- was this the three hundred and twenty-fifth Kree that had been harvested, or was it simply that the three hundred and twenty-fifth method of distilling the serum had worked the best?

That was a question she didn't have time for, and she pushed it aside.

She would also need to do bloodwork. Her own blood would serve to start, but she could also make a case for getting samples from the guards and possibly even Loki himself. Theoretically the guards had never been exposed to the effect of the serum, so it would only be logical to compare the effect the serum had on their blood as opposed to the effect it would have on hers. Depending on Loki's intended use of the finished product, he might also be interested in its effect on his own alien biology.

Jemma tried not to dwell on the fact that drawing her own blood was going to be difficult in and of itself. The logistics of the act were not the problem, but her own reaction to the idea. She, who had once regarded the pinch of a needle as nothing more irritating than a mosquito bite, now felt a deep and abiding fear of the slightest prick of a syringe. She wasn't even sure that she could draw blood from someone else at this point without shuddering, though she would have to if she had any hope of making this plan work.

In a shorter time than she would have liked the lab was tidy and gleaming, and she found herself with vein prepped and syringe in hand, shaking slightly in unhappy hesitation. "This is absolutely nothing," she said aloud, lying to herself. "A second's work and then it's over."

Jemma shed a few tears as the needle slid into her flesh, holding back the sobs in the interminable seconds it took to collect the vial of blood. She had to sit down as soon as she had finished and had removed the tourniquet, tucking her head between her knees as the room began to spin.

Anxiety colluded with fatigue and low blood sugar, hitting her hard as she slumped forward in her seat. She had been too nervous to eat much of anything that morning, and now it was going on evening. Did Loki care that humans were heavily dependent on regular nourishment, hydration, and rest? Did he realize that he had locked her into a lab without access to a lavatory?

It had been too long and too strange a day- a true understatement- and now she was actively conspiring against a god who thought she was no better than an ant. She had only seen a hint of this Jemma Simmons before, and that had been when she had made the decision to take a leap off of the back of the Bus mid-flight. She was brave, in her own mad way, though she preferred the quieter bravery that had carried her through Lima and coaxed Phil into her arms.

Jemma pulled herself back to her feet quickly, forcing a grim smile onto her face even as her vision temporarily blurred, and picked up her vial of blood. She couldn't afford to think about Phil- not now, certainly not anytime soon- though the game she was about to play was, at least in part, her last act of love for him. After she was finished, no one would ever drag him back unwillingly from the quiet dark again.

Jemma decided then and there that she was going to enjoy deceiving Loki. If she died in the process, at least it would be a death that she had chosen.


	19. Punica granatum

_The statue of Hera is seated on a throne; it is huge, made of gold and ivory, and is a work of Polycleitus. She is wearing a crown with Graces and Seasons worked upon it, and in one hand she carries a pomegranate and in the other a sceptre. About the pomegranate I must say nothing, for its story is somewhat of a holy mystery._  
-_Description of Greece_ 2.17.4 (Jones), Pausanius

The equipment in this lab was very slow, which in many ways was a blessing. She was still waiting for the results from her first blood panel- for in all truth, without knowing what her current baseline was, any tests she might do with the serum would be useless- and she was already dreading the second blood draw she would have to do on herself (not to mention the third, the fourth, and however many more she might have to endure to keep up this bloody charade).

The door opened behind her, creaking in a way that indicated that the hinges had not been oiled in quite some time. "Progress?" he asked. "You don't look very busy."

"I'm going to need to see how the serum interacts with human blood," she replied calmly. "Before I can do that, I need to know what I'm working with." She turned in her seat to look at him, projecting her most convincing I-am-a-capable-scientist persona. "Would it be possible to obtain blood samples from the guards? I'll get better results if I have a wider range of samples to draw from."

Three people was hardly a large pool, but she had no intention of discussing the complexities of thorough scientific research with him, either now or at anytime in the future. There was always the possibility that he would decide to obtain other blood samples through less orthodox methods, and she hoped to avoid that.

"Yes," he replied confidently. "At a moment's notice."

"Excellent." She paused, then continued hesitantly, "Would you also like to know how it might affect someone of your species?"

His former expression of amused condescension shuttered rapidly into something closer to anger. "No."

"Of course," she replied quietly, dropping her gaze. "My apologies."

He was silent for a moment, then said, "Perhaps. I will consider it."

She hoped that he would consider the question for a very long time.

"Do you need anything?" he asked in a grudging tone.

"Food and a place to rest." She glanced up at him through her lashes, worried he would deny her in a fit of pique. "It will take several more hours for this test to finish, and I don't want to make mistakes just because I'm feeling unwell."

Loki grumbled a bit at this, but gestured for her to leave the lab ahead of him.

He locked her into the break room, where she scavenged through the cabinets and found less food than she had expected. Where were they getting their supplies? Perhaps there was a storage pantry somewhere on premises, or perhaps they had regular provisions coming in by air. She wasn't sure whether she hoped that the latter was the case or not; it very much depended on who might be doing the provisioning.

She finally selected a can of soup and heated it over the small stove, setting aside a box of crackers and a few bottles of water which she had found. There was a sink in the lab, but the water had been tinted a rusty, unpleasant orange, and she reluctant to actually drink it except as a last resort. She didn't feel guilty about ransacking the guards' supplies- she had to look after herself in this situation, and it was safer in many ways to act as if she had every right to walk all over them. She couldn't and wouldn't take the risk of creeping around like the prisoner she was; exhibiting weakness might invite the wrong kind of attention.

After eating she explored the rest of the break room. There was a couch and a small television hooked to an overly complicated-looking cable box, and little else. There was a small bathroom, complete with a shower, and she stood indecisively just inside the door, yearning to wash the dust off her hair and skin. It was the absence of a lock on the bathroom door that gave her pause, and the instinctive knowledge of just how vulnerable a naked woman can be to an outside threat.

It was her need to put on a brave front that decided her. She could hardly present herself as confident if she looked unkempt. There was little she could do about her clothing except to give them a good shake, knocking off as much of the dust as she could before taking a hurried shower in the same rusty water that she had seen in the lab. She wrinkled her nose at the overpowering scent of the soap available, tutting underneath her breath when it seemed to dry her skin on mere contact.

It was a relief to pull her clothing back on when she was finished, dusty as the items were. They were hardly armor against an assault, but they were better than nothing. If she could convince Loki to let her investigate the facility- perhaps under the guise of finding a particular piece of equipment? a lab coat?- she might be able to find something clean in roughly her size in storage.

She was practically swaying with fatigue by the time she curled up on the lumpy couch, but actual sleep came slowly. It was cool in the room, and her outfit had been better suited for the Chilean heat. Jemma closed her eyes, carefully compartmentalizing as she put her vivid imagination to use. The moment she opened her eyes again she would have to push this away, but for now she pretended that Phil was pressed against her back, warm and solid. They were in Lima again, and the seasons had rolled back around to the cooler nights of winter. There would be no interruptions, not tonight- they were no longer fugitives, and Natasha and Clint slept soundly in their room across the courtyard.

She did cry before she slept, but very, very quietly.

* * *

He had too much time to think, and it was becoming a problem. Strangely, it was not his fears that were causing him the most distress, but the way small, ordinary things about Jemma kept popping into his mind: the way her hair fell down her back, or the flit of her skirt when she turned a corner. He would suddenly think of the way she looked in sleep in the early morning hours and find himself nearly undone by grief.

The anger would return in due course, probably just in time for him to punch Fury in the face, but in his quiet corner of the plane memories and worry were all that haunted him.

Loki would have had a reason for taking Jemma, and what it was Phil couldn't determine. He suspected that it was at least partially because of her distant ties to the Avengers, but he doubted that was the entire reason. She was brilliant and notable in her field, and that alone might have attracted his attention to her if he was in the market for a biochemist. What Loki would need a biochemist for was the question, and Phil doubted that he would like the answer.

At the very least he could take comfort in the fact that without his scepter, Loki would be unable to affect her mind, but Clint had been right, just hours earlier- they didn't know what Loki had up his sleeve at this point, or what he might have learned in his time away.

"So, Loki took your girl?" Tony asked, and Phil wasn't sure if he was glad of the interruption or not. "What happened to the cellist?"

"I died," he replied curtly. "How long until we land?"

"A few more hours." Tony gave him a hard stare. "Seriously, Agent, what possessed you to play possum? Was it Fury's idea? Because that was a shitty trick to play, let me tell you."

Phil grimaced. He didn't want to go into this right now- it wasn't something he enjoyed discussing at the best of times- but Stark was persistent to a fault when he wanted an answer. "I literally died, Tony," he said finally. "And not just for a few minutes. And no, I don't know how they managed it."

"Figures that you would pull a Jesus." Tony gave him a sardonic look. "By the way, the Scottish teddy bear is going to take you to the mats. Just in case you hadn't noticed."

"I noticed."

"That doesn't worry you?"

Only if Jemma found out about it. "No."

"Because I think he fights dirty." Tony took a sip from his drink. "He might not have your secret agent man training, but the kid looks like the type to garrote someone with piano wire in a dark hallway."

"Too easy," Phil replied glumly. "He would build a robot to do the strangling for him. You should offer him a job; he would be an asset to your tech department."

"Oh, I will," Tony promised with more than a hint of glee. "I'm also going to poach your hacker for good measure."

That would take care of Skye and Fitz, at least. "You're not taking Ward and May?"

"I don't trust anyone whose cheekbones are that chiseled." Stark's expression began to look worryingly earnest. "So, your girl-"

"She's one of the best biochemists in the business, and I don't think she would appreciate being called a 'girl'," Phil cut in quickly, beginning to feel angry once more.

"Fair enough," Tony replied agreeably, placing his now-empty glass on the floor next to his feet. "I called the rest of the team."

"Of course you did," Phil replied with a sigh. He had never meant to head an insurgency against SHIELD, but obviously he was not going to be given a say in this matter- though in all honesty he himself had set this particular revolution in motion the moment he had contacted Natasha with his suspicions. Given the chance to revisit that decision, he would still make the same choice.

"Apparently Bruce actually knows your Dr. Simmons, though they never met in person. He was under the impression that she had died- seems to be happening a lot, these days- but they used to be science penpals." Tony grinned at that last bit. "That wasn't the term he used, of course."

It had never been a secret on the Bus that Jemma kept up regular correspondence with her peers in various scientific fields, and even then Phil had trusted her to keep mum on the details of their missions- and, of course, of his continued existence. He wasn't surprised that she had been trading emails with Banner; their research had most likely dovetailed neatly at several points. "And how did he take the news?"

"Oh, he got very, very quiet, and then I think he threw his phone against a wall." Tony shrugged. "Or he hung up. But there was a crunch, so…"

"And Rogers?"

"I tried to get him, but he's off 'finding himself' somewhere in the midwest," Tony informed him, complete with air quotes. "Never should have bought him that copy of _On the Road_."

Skye appeared around the corner. "Hey, AC, we found him- he's outside of Akureyri."

"I'll tell Jerry," Stark said as he stood. "Blue Skies, want to move to Manhattan and be part of my whiz-kid hacker gang?"

"Gee whiz, mister," she replied in the most deadpan tone Phil had ever heard from her, "will I get to rumble with the Sharks, too?"

"Sass," Tony said appreciatively. "I like that."

"Never call me Blue Skies again," Skye called after him as he left, and she perched cautiously on the seat he had abandoned, sitting on the edge as if afraid Phil would snap at her to leave. "I'm starting to think the money might not be worth it," she confided with a tentative smile. "Especially if I have to put up with nicknames like that for the rest of my career."

"He still insists that Agent is my first name," he replied wearily, sinking back in his chair. "Is Fury in a SHIELD safe house?"

"Not unless it's a SHIELD safe house safe house." She offered him the tablet she carried. "It's owned by a Marcus Tully, but the money was routed through seven different shell companies. The names amused Romanov for some reason; she said something about dragons and Winterfell."

He quirked a small smile. "A few years ago they got into an argument over who would be the ultimate victor for the Iron Throne."

"Glad to see that nerd culture is alive and well in SHIELD's top brass," she said dryly. "You, uh, doing okay?" She had the same look on her face that she had given him after his time with Raina. He had put her off then, but he wasn't sure that he could put her off now, or if he even wanted to.

"Jemma is very good at taking care of herself," he said quietly. "But Loki is hardly your average threat."

"She's smarter than him," Skye replied immediately, in a way that almost sounded dismissive. It was the strain that he could see at the corners of her eyes that gave away her own worry.

In a sense, she was right- Jemma was certainly the most intelligent person that he had ever met, and he had no doubt that she could hold her own against nearly anyone, god or man.

Loki, unfortunately, was not just anyone. "He doesn't play by any rules, Skye. His mind makes jumps that most people can't fathom, and he uses trickery with the same ease as breathing."

"Jemma's careful, though. She wouldn't take unnecessary risks," Skye protested, and he had to fight the ridiculous urge to laugh. Jemma was careful, yes, but she was also brave- almost too brave for his comfort.

"She's taken plenty of unnecessary risks," he said finally. There were the obvious incidents- her jump, the grenade on the train- but he also included himself in the list. Not many women would accept someone as damaged as he with the same openness of heart as Jemma.

He adored her, and he had no idea what he would do with himself if he failed to get her back safely.

Skye's expression told him that she was seconds away from rolling her eyes. "Have some faith, AC. Worrying will do you no good."

"Thank you, Dr. Skye," he replied with bitter sarcasm, and now she did roll her eyes.

"You are so welcome, _Phil_," she said, her expression that of inexplicable fondness, and left him to his thoughts.

* * *

Loki let Jemma sleep for five hours before the lights came on in full force, sending her rocketing back awake. For a moment her eyes could only see the blank wall nearest the couch she had been sleeping on, and she was briefly uncertain as to where she actually was.

"Perhaps you would be willing to work now?" he asked, his voice verging on sarcasm, and she scrambled to her feet, trying to untangle her tousled hair with her fingers. He said nothing when she grabbed the supplies she had put aside, and in fact said nothing at all during the walk back to the lab.

"I won't run away," she said before he could close the door. "Please leave it unlocked."

"Why should I?" he asked with a sneer.

"Because I don't want to defile the sanctity of a laboratory by urinating in the sink," she replied with a bit more heat than she had intended.

He stared at her for a moment, appearing somewhat nonplussed that she had been so frank with him, before shutting the door without a reply. He did not lock it, which she counted as a victory.

The results from her blood test were waiting patiently on the computer screen, and she began to review the data after cracking open the seal on the first bottle of water. Her results were quite ordinary- everything looked as it should, as if she had never been exposed to alien viruses or serums in her life. The only odd note was an elevated level of human chorionic gonadotropin, which-

She took a step back from the screen, and then another, dropping the open bottle of water onto the floor. She didn't flinch when the water splashed against her legs, soaking into her trousers and socks. Her vision narrowed to a pinprick and she stumbled to the nearest trash can, shaking and sick with panic.

"No, no, no, no," she whispered after she had finished retching, a futile mantra now that her hopeless situation had gained a poignant edge. This had not been a part of her equation, when she had first made the decision to lead Loki astray. Pregnancy had not even been on her radar, and yet there was the incontrovertible truth- an hCG level consistent with the fifth week of gestation. At some point in mid-October her birth control had failed spectacularly, and here she was on a veritable suicide mission.

She opened a second bottle of water to rinse out her mouth, and afterward sat on the stool, considering her options.

It did not take her very long to realize that she didn't actually have any options in this scenario. Ethically she could not allow the formula for GH325 to leave this bunker. Every sample had to be destroyed, as did the alien corpse just a room away. It would be even better if she could find a way to destroy this bunker in its entirety, just in case other labs with similarly destructive secrets lay dark and cold along these halls.

From a logical viewpoint, she still had to continue on her current course. It would be foolish to place her blind faith in Loki's promise to return her unharmed if she served him well; he was just as likely to leave her in the middle of the Sandbox with her hands and ankles bound. Her pregnancy would just make her a more valuable acquisition, once they discovered the identity of the father- and they would. They would take a DNA sample and run it through SHIELD's database, and the very first men they would check for a match would be Clint and Phil.

A child conceived by two parents who had been exposed to GH325- yes, they would find that very interesting, indeed.

Her course was set. She had to think in clinical terms, now. She needed to remove herself from the equation entirely.

And that was exactly what she did, as she dried the floor and cleaned up the evidence of her panic. She couldn't afford to be Jemma any longer; she could only be Dr. Simmons, who lived for scientific inquiry.

Caught in a state of unnatural calm, she altered her blood test results, lowering the level of hCG to within the normal range. There was nothing on the report to indicate her physical state now, and that was how it would stay.

She took out one of the vials of GH325 and prepared it for testing. The slow equipment that she had been glad of yesterday now presented a challenge. She was operating within a stricter time-frame than she originally expected; it would be a race between deceiving Loki as thoroughly as possible and the inevitable unraveling of her emotional state.

She would antagonize him, she decided. If she made him angry enough, and at the right time, he would likely kill her without considering alternative means of making her suffer.

And so she bent herself to the task ahead, thinking only of the intricate molecular structures that comprised the proteins and the compounds that made this serum so effective in its own peculiar way. It was fascinating, if she made herself forget the why and the how and the effects. The serum was beautiful on a molecular level, much as ebola or variola major were, and that was what she focused on in the hours that followed.

She did not allow herself to consider when, exactly, they might have conceived this child: whether it had been in the sleepy hours of an early morning, slow and gentle, or whether it had been one of the evenings when he had pressed her against the sheets, teasing her until she was only capable of sobbing his name. That question she locked away with her memories of Lima, and she swore to herself that she would not revisit them unless she were absolutely safe.

That there might never come such a moment was something she also refused to dwell on.

* * *

Phil had been to Iceland before- had enjoyed it, even, and had particularly good memories of a folk music festival he had attended roughly ten years before- but he had a feeling that he would never be able to return to this country without remember the sharp rush of rage he had felt the moment he first saw Fury's face.

"Huh," Tony said, tilting his head to the side as he considered Fury's now supine form. "You have a mean right hook, Agent."

"What the _hell, Phil_," Fury roared, jumping back to his feet in a move that should not have been possible in a man his size. "Have you gone completely insane?"

Phil pressed forward, not caring that Fury was intent on not giving an inch. "Where is Loki?"

"A very good question," he replied sarcastically. "That's why you've come out of hiding, Phil? Loki makes an unauthorized visit to the New York office and you decide it's time to get revenge?" He cut a glance around the room. "And you! Romanov, what possessed you to throw in with him?"

"You notice he made no mention of me," Clint muttered to Natasha, who smirked.

"They went too far," she told Fury simply, but there was a trace of hurt in her eyes. "Didn't you have any misgivings, Nick? First Phil, and then Jemma? Are we no better than Centipede?"

He took a step back at this, though it seemed to be more out of surprise than anything. "Jemma Simmons? This is about Jemma Simmons?"

"Yes, it damn well is," Fitz spat, and if he noticed he was standing shoulder to shoulder with Phil he didn't give any indication. "Where is she?"

"Well, fuck," Fury said unexpectedly, and took a few steps away, throwing his hands in the air. "She's in her family vault, I expect. Is that why you tried to blow up the sci-tech facility where she had been working?" he asked incredulously. "Don't you think that was a little extreme, Phil?"

The room was suddenly filled with cacophony as everyone began talking at once, and it took a sharp whistle from May to regain order.

"_Wait_," she said sternly, and met Fury's gaze. "Tell us what you know." She looked at the others grimly. "If anyone interrupts I will shoot them." The fact that she only had her hand on one of Fitz's night-night guns did not make the threat any less disturbing.

"Look, I'm not proud of it," Fury said patiently. "But I needed your team focused. I remembered what happened when your rookie was shot; I couldn't afford to have you all grounded again."

Phil held up his hand in a silent warning to May to back off, and spoke. "Now that we've heard your excuse, _tell us what you know_."

"Bacterial meningitis," Fury bit out. "About two months after she temporarily transferred. It moved very quickly; the doctors couldn't do anything. I was waiting to tell you during your furlough." His expression grew stormy. "And then you lured away my best operatives and _blew up_ a SHIELD facility."

"You were going to wait _six months_ before telling us anything?" Phil asked, hardly believing what he was hearing. Beside him Fitz was muttering dire imprecations under his breath.

"That's low, Morpheus," Tony offered in a helpful tone, and out of the corner of his eye Phil saw Skye slam her elbow into his ribs.

"Yes, I was." Fury drew himself up to his full height. "You came back different, Phil. You're distracted and emotional, and you've made more than one uncharacteristic decision. You recruited a hacker from Rising Tide, refused to follow orders when Agent Simmons contracted the Chitauri virus, and god knows what else. That aside, I still needed you in the field doing what you do best, so I made an executive decision to temporarily keep her death under wraps. I didn't even tell her parents until after you disappeared."

"Fury," Natasha said quietly into the ensuing silence, "Jemma Simmons is alive."

He stared at her. "Bullshit. I read her autopsy report. I spoke with the doctors who attended her at the end. I was there when they burned her body, and then I took her ashes to England myself."

"She's telling the truth," Phil assured him bitterly. "We found her locked in a cell, unconscious. Perhaps you would like to know what they did to her, while you unwittingly covered their tracks."

He held out the envelope containing Jemma's file to Fury, who took it after a moment. "Is this why fifty years worth of inter-office memos concerning missing cleaning supplies ended up next to my desk?" he asked Natasha, who shrugged in reply.

Fury looked back at Phil. "And what does Loki have to do with this?"

"He has her," Phil said, slowly and clearly. "We need to get her back."

"Excuse me," Tony interjected, and dodged Skye's incoming blow. "What the hell are you doing off the grid, again? Because I am getting the distinct impression that you don't know much of anything."

Fury's glare would have knocked just about anyone back a step, though it appeared that the rare exceptions were all currently standing in the same room with him. "This," he replied, lifting the envelope into the air, "is why. I knew that some section of SHIELD had gone rotten, but until now they covered their tracks so well that I thought the culprits were in communications."

He opened the envelope and slid the contents out onto a nearby table, skimming quickly through the reports until he hit on the one that came directly after her death. "Well, _shit_," he cursed, and pulled out his phone. "Hill," he said grimly after a moment, "it's Dorian's department. I want every single one of his people in a cell." He paused. "Yes, all of them. Even the janitors and administrative pool, until we rule them out. The same goes for everyone who actually spoke with Loki when he made his walk-in," Fury finished, and put away his phone.

It was a hollow victory without Jemma there to enjoy it. "Do you know where he is?" Phil asked him, and Fury shook his head.

"I was already here when he appeared, and Hill was at the Triskelion. We were told that he claimed to be have been sent by Odin to repent for his crimes." Fury rolled his eyes, looking incredibly disgruntled. "Knew that was shit even then, but no one bothered to inform us until after Loki pulled his disappearing act."

"Your communications problems are only getting worse, I see," Phil replied bitterly, remembering every unanswered phone call and email from his time on the Bus.

"New York changed a great deal." Fury peered more closely at the file, plucking one piece of paper out after a moment. "Did I ever tell you that Dorian was the first of your surgeons?"

"The only one I know about is Streiten." Phil cut a glance at the others in the room, who stared back, unabashed. "What did Dorian do for me?"

"He stabilized you. But before he did that, he used this drug." Fury tapped one line with his finger. "GH325. Looks like he kept a vial back, that bastard."

"Never heard of it before," Fitz said, still scowling. "Jemma would have mentioned it at some point, if it was common knowledge."

Fury was quiet for a moment. "It's not made by SHIELD, not officially," he said finally. "I commissioned it personally."

He dropped the paper unceremoniously onto the table. "Dorian is currently stationed at the Triskelion." He pulled on his coat. "I assume everyone is coming to DC with me?"

It was the closest they had to a lead, but Phil chafed at losing so much time to travel and trying to wrest the truth out of Dorian and his allies. He swept Jemma's file back into the envelope and followed Fury back out the door into the swirling snow.

"I want to be involved in the interrogations," he told Fury tersely, and the other man gave him a too-perceptive look.

"You want to slam Dorian's head into a table," he countered.

"Yes," Phil admitted easily. "And a great deal more beside."

Fury raised a brow. "You sound emotionally compromised, Phil."

He raised his left hand in reply, the ring still visible in the dim light.

Fury considered the sight, and finally sighed. "You were much easier to deal with before you died."


	20. Fraxinus excelsior (redux)

_I know that I hung on a windy tree_  
_nine long nights,_  
_wounded with a spear, dedicated to Odin,_  
_myself to myself,_  
_on that tree of which no man knows_  
_from where its roots run._  
-_Hávamál_, stanza 137 (Larrington)

Jemma managed to carry herself through another day of work, uncovering layer after layer of the serum's complexities with a single-minded focus that was unnatural even for her. She felt numb, and she dully hoped that the lack of feeling would last until the end.

Loki checked in on her more than once, but now that she was working steadily he seemed content to hold his tongue and kept the grandstanding chatter at a minimum. He made no mention of the personal time she took, or rather the lack of personal time- what breaks she took were short and solely to attend to her most pressing needs.

When what passed for the day ended, she ate out of necessity and slept, shutting her mind against anything other than the dull haze that surrounded every thought.

The numbness had receded somewhat by the time she woke up the next day, but it had been replaced with a kind of bitter pragmatism that in some ways was easier to deal with. The morning proceeded much the same as the day before: she worked, she hydrated, she took copious notes, carefully skewing her research at various critical points in case someone tried to follow her method in the future. Four hours passed before Jemma forced herself to stop. It was her eyes crossing with strain that convinced her; she could hardly be precise if her vision was compromised.

She needed to stretch her legs and let her eyes focus on something other than the close-up work that dominated the lab, and on an impulse she headed down an unfamiliar corridor, hoping that curiosity would be a sufficient distraction from the various other thoughts that were now clamoring for attention. There were fewer doors in this direction, just long, dingy hallways that eventually brought her to a dead end. Here there were doors: those on either side proved to be small offices, and she poked idly through the desks and filing cabinets, finding little more than dust and stray pens. It was the door at the end of the hall that intrigued her. It was small and inconspicuous, and looked as if it led to yet another empty office, but once opened it inexplicably led into one of the most advanced operating theatres she had ever seen.

She stopped on the threshold, staring at the equipment with a frown. All of it was fairly standard, with the exception of something that looked curiously like a metal spider. She drew closer and inspected the device carefully, noting the delicate filaments and hinged legs that dangled from the bulbous globe. Obviously it was meant to connect to something- a computer, most likely, and perhaps some kind of controller.

"Oh," she said suddenly, taking a step back as her mind connected the significance of the device's placement over the head of the operating table. "That is _not_ standard equipment," she said in annoyance, her hands on her hips, not even noticing that she had begun to talk to herself. "Who came up with this?"

Not Fitz, that much was certain. If he had created this monstrosity, it would have been streamlined to at least half the size. She reached out and tentatively touched one of the tentacles. It moved easily in its unpowered state, clicking against the others when she released it to swing like a Newton's cradle.

"Some kind of apparatus for brain surgery," she posited quietly, pulling the globe down further on its hinge. It hung from the ceiling like a stage light, and looked to be on some kind of track.

"Neat, right?" a voice said from behind her, and she jumped slightly. One of the guards stood at the door, looking relaxed and surprisingly friendly. "It's really something in action."

"You've seen it used?" she asked, curious despite herself. She took a closer look at one of the tentacles as if she wasn't at all concerned by his presence, preparing herself to run if he made a sudden move.

"Oh, yeah." He grinned. "I'm Bob, by the way. I was stationed here for the first time about three years ago- they brought in some guy; he was here for a while."

She stared fixedly at the jointed metal, knowing immediately who that patient had been. It was a struggle to keep a curious expression on her face, a struggle to stop herself from throwing herself back from the machine with a cry. She had one of the tentacles in her hand, and she released it as casually as possible.

_False memories_, she thought, swallowing quickly to stem the vomit that was trying to force its way up her throat. "Some kind of memory modification device?" she asked lightly, walking toward him. Every step toward him was a step toward the exit, and she wanted nothing more than to leave this room behind. The air suddenly felt thick with tension and pain, and she was very conscious of the black metal and empty operating table at her back. "Do you see a lot of patients, here?"

"Nah." He waved her through the door and began walking down the hall with her. She kept pace with him, hoping her counterfeit interest looked even remotely convincing. "He was the only patient I've seen here. He might have been the first patient here since the bunker was decommissioned after World War II."

It made sense, in an odd way. For whatever reason, Fury had been desperate enough to keep Phil alive that he had searched heaven and earth for a miracle. A man who would go to such lengths wouldn't think twice of outfitting an old bunker for what should have been an impossibility. "Did he survive, the patient?"

"He arrived in a body bag and left under his own power." He cast her a sly glance. "Would you like to see one of the recordings?"

That was the absolute _last_ thing she wanted to see, but from the look in his eyes- challenging, all of a sudden, as if he were testing her- she had a feeling that a negative response would not be the safest course.

"Of course," she replied smoothly. "I'm very interested in seeing that machine in action."

He led her to the security booth, where the other guard gave them a curious look. "Problems?"

"No, I'm just showing her some of that footage." Bob searched quickly through computer files, pulling up video within seconds.

The recording was crisp, and though it was shot from one fixed viewpoint, it was set closer to the operating table than she might have expected from security footage. There was no doubt who the various players were: she recognized Dr. Streiten, which meant that this was later in Phil's recovery. He was arguing with a nurse she didn't recognize, and there, on the table, was Phil. They had his skull cut open, and the machine she had touched just minutes before danced agilely around his head, the tentacles making contact with the exposed brain tissue.

There was no sound, for which she was glad. It was difficult enough to keep her composure without it, not when she wanted to sob and scream at the same time.

"Wild, right?" Bob said in completely inappropriate glee. "Listen."

She took a shaky step back as he cranked up the volume, and the intertwined voices spilled from the speakers: Streiten, who was obviously having a complete crisis of conscience; the nurse, who replied calmly as she followed outside orders; Phil, who was begging to die in a voice she had never heard from him before.

Jemma turned and fled the room, faintly hearing Bob say, "_Women_," in a disgusted tone.

She ran down the seemingly endless corridors with the same fleetness of foot that had once inspired Clint to jokingly call her Atalanta. Her path led her deeper beneath the earth than she had been yet, the halls sloping gently and inexorably to a dead end, where she stumbled to a stop.

"Bloody hell," she half-screamed, and shocked herself by slapping the wall so hard that the impact reverberated up her arm.

She backed away from the wall, startled by the pain and the sheer amount of vitriol she had heard in her voice. She would have expected tears or the weight of depression, or even a resurgence of the cold clarity she had felt that morning, but no- she was angry.

Correction: Jemma Simmons was _furious_.

"Well," she said, in an icy voice that she scarcely recognized as her own, "bugger this for a lark."

Her gaze caught on the gray metal door set into the wall to the side of the dead end. In hindsight she would not be able to explain what, exactly, made her reach for the door, just that in her peculiar state of mind it seemed a reasonable thing to do. The door opened easily to her hand, revealing the water treatment center for the facility. The pipes were beginning to show signs of neglect, which presumably explained the tinted orange shade of the water that flowed out of the sinks and showers further up in the facility. It was the complicated bank of switches that drew her attention, and the manual that lay beside.

She flipped open the large notebook and skimmed the information in the first few pages, realizing belatedly that she was beginning to smile. The bunker was fed by a subterranean lake, which flowed around and, at this level, above the facility.

And here was a very helpful section in the manual, which detailed the safety measures used to keep the bunker from flooding. It was obvious that the author of this manual had never expected someone would try to _intentionally_ flood the bunker, and yet it was easy enough for Jemma to read between the lines and determine the correct switches which would allow the flow of water to proceed uninhibited through the various pipes into the bunker itself.

She took a moment to consider the idea, and in her anger, found it good.

She flipped the correct assemblage of switches, sprinting out of the room as the pipes around her groaned in warning. The noise was loud amidst the concrete, the audible rush of water echoing off the walls as she ran up the sloped hall. She glanced behind herself once to see that murky water was already spilling its way out of the control room, splashing against the walls of the hall and gaining on her with a momentum that was both exhilarating and terrifying.

She easily outpaced the rising water level, slamming doors behind her as she ran. The temporary water breaks were just that: temporary. She hoped they would buy her the time she needed to eradicate her work in the lab, one last nail in the coffin that was this ridiculous experiment.

Her cheeks were damp, she realized as she sprinted upward. She was crying after all.

* * *

"Dude, you need to sleep," Skye said in an exasperated tone, attempting to drag Phil back toward one of the bunks on Fury's plane. "Seriously, I don't know how you expect to kick ass and take names if you're swaying on your feet."

"Have you been working out at all?" he asked her, annoyed. "Because you haven't managed to move me more than a few inches."

"I have been working out plenty, thank you," she replied dryly. "You are just incurably stubborn." She glanced to her right. "Barton, help me."

Clint shook his head. "Can't. This is like one of those avant-garde art installations. To help you would be to destroy the moment."

Skye turned her gaze back to Phil, and raised a brow. "He's always like this?"

"I attribute at least part of my hair loss to him and him alone."

She sighed and released his hand. "Just think how much more damage you'll be able to do to that jerkass if you're well-rested."

He couldn't tell Skye that the only way he would sleep at this point would be with the aid of medication. Without it he would only be lying awake in the dark, tormented by the memories of what had been and his fears of what might even now be happening. "Skye, I promise you that I am fully capable of interrogating someone on the bare minimum of sleep."

Her eyes narrowed. "And what, exactly, is the bare minimum?"

"If you have to ask, you'll never know," Clint answered her sagely. "Anyway, he's running on black coffee and revenge right now. Once we find Jemma he'll probably sleep the clock around."

He might, provided she was safe and unharmed and tucked into bed next to him.

Skye nodded begrudgingly. "Fine." She paused, studying Phil consideringly. "You're never coming back to SHIELD, are you?" she asked suddenly, looking a bit hurt. "I was hoping…"

He knew exactly what she had been hoping. For all her talk about working for Stark, she obviously still longed for what they had once had. Skye had a tendency to wear her heart on her sleeve. "No, we're not," he answered almost immediately. There was no chance that they would all return to the Bus when this was all over, diving back into their old lives and their old work. Fury might offer to let them- and probably would, when all was said and done- but neither he nor Jemma would be able to serve SHIELD in good conscience again, regardless of anything Fury might come up with to sweeten the deal. It would take a great deal more than money and shared quarters to persuade them back into SHIELD's employ.

"If you go back to Lima, Nat and I would like to come," Clint said somewhat diffidently, the slight tension in his shoulders the only indication that his words were more than a casual preference. "I think we were all very happy there."

"I would like that," Phil replied, and gave him a small smile. "I think Jemma would be very happy to have both of you back in Lima."

"Provided Nat doesn't call for drills at two in the morning?" Clint said with a grin. "Yeah, I think even she would be okay with those terms."

Skye's expression had grown blank gradually over the course of their conversation, and Phil wondered briefly if she had learned that from him. "We always have a room for you, Skye," he told her quietly. "If you decide that Stark will drive you crazy in the long run, we'd be happy to have you."

Phil wasn't surprised when his offer brought on an enthusiastic hug. He wasn't entirely sure when she had become something like a surrogate niece- he was protective of her, but not necessarily paternal- but he was tired of closing himself off from emotional connections. He would take family where he found it from now on.

She pulled back, grinning. "Hey, can I touch Lola now?"

"I don't even know where Lola is," he replied with a quirk of his brow. "Why, do you know?"

"I got to it before SHIELD could pick it apart for clues," Stark answered as he joined their group. "It's too sweet a ride to be dissected by those butchers."

"I don't suppose I could have her back?" Phil asked dryly. "I'm rather fond of her."

"I saved her for you," Tony replied innocently. "I most certainly did not make any modifications. Except for a few tiny ones. You'll never notice them."

"This is exactly why I had a rule against touching Lola," Phil sighed, feeling a sudden wave of fatigue wash over him. It figured that Stark would be the one to wear him down. "Excuse me."

SHIELD's standard bunks were specifically tailored to be just shy of comfortable. At some point they had hired actual analysts to determine the correct ratio that would allow field operatives to be rested, and yet not so well-rested that they would have trouble waking in an instant. The fact that a well-trained operative was capable of waking at a second's notice, regardless of sleeping accommodations, was a fact that SHIELD seemed to ignore; they preferred to operate on a just-in-case kind of mentality.

This meant that his bunk was cold and just on the verge of being too hard, and the sheets were within the same thread count range as those used in hospitals and similar institutions. He had fought hard for better beds on the Bus- it was amazing how much paperwork that alone had created- but he had always found that a comfortable bed correlated surprisingly highly with team morale, and in the end the fuss had been worth it.

Of course, if Jemma were curled up next to him, this particular bed would immediately become much more comfortable. He had never really yearned for anyone before, had always thought that that particular emotion was more a poetic device than anything, and yet there was no doubt in his mind that he yearned for Jemma. It wasn't just sex, though he desired her as much as ever: it was the complete package that was Jemma Simmons, all amazing intellect and soft curves and earnest love.

Fury was right, and so was Jemma- he had come back different, but what Fury regarded as a liability, Jemma considered an asset. He would rather continue as he was for her than mold himself back into the image of a company man for Fury.

A better man, she had called him. He fully intended to live up to those words.

* * *

His good intentions lasted only as long as it took to get Dorian into an interrogation room, at which point it became clear to everyone, including Phil, that having the two men in the same room would only end with Dorian taking a blow to the face. Phil was still perfectly willing to remain a part of the interrogation, even with the odds being what they were, but Fury banned him from the room within the first few minutes of questioning.

It was infuriating enough being on the wrong side of the one-way glass, but listening to Dorian defend his actions was enough to significantly raise his blood pressure. Dorian had no problems with explaining himself to Fury, and in fact seemed quite proud of himself for the research that he had accomplished.

"Dr. Simmons was simply serving SHIELD in a new, more worthwhile way," he had the audacity to say. "It was for the greater good."

Dorian absolutely believed in what he was saying, and that, more than anything, made Phil want to pound on something.

"What an unmitigated ass," Maria Hill sighed from beside him, crossing her arms as she stared through the glass. "To think I danced the waltz with him at the Christmas party."

"Have his super soldiers been detained?" he asked her, hands clenched into fists as Dorian began listing, in detail and chronological order, every test that had been done on Jemma under his supervision.

"They turned themselves in," she replied, frowning slightly. "His methods for controlling them were unorthodox as well. They all seemed pleased to remand themselves into the custody of anyone other than Dorian."

"How did he get this far?" It was a question very present in Phil's mind- just behind the most pressing question, which was where the hell Jemma was. "This is not a man who went bad overnight. He could have been showing signs as early as his time as a student at the academy."

She shook her head, her expression a tad bleak. "We can't catch them all. We do our best, but…"

She trailed off, eyes narrowing as Dorian began sketching on the pad of paper Fury had placed in front of him. She manipulated the cameras so that one zoomed in on his drawing, and immediately reached out to grab Phil's shoulder when he would have sprinted for the door to the interrogation room. "Stand down," she snapped, though it was evident that her anger was directed at anyone other than him. "Let him dig his own grave."

It appeared Dorian had grown tired of merely trying to explain the procedures to Fury. He had sketched the female form as seen from the front and the back, and was marking the site of each procedure with an x. It was bad enough seeing the number of crosses covering the drawing, though he was already very familiar with the pattern from first hand experience. Worse was that he had taken a moment to sketch a passable rendition of Jemma's face on the front view, and after finishing had smirked briefly in the direction of the glass.

"I want to kill him," Phil admitted quietly to her, and she nodded.

"Me, too," she replied, surprising him. "But following protocol in this situation is what will set us apart from that dickbag."

He eyed her askance. She wasn't generally given to profanity, or much outward emotion at all, really. "Your command of language is stunning."

"You haven't heard anything yet." She turned away from the window with a sigh. "I'm not going to say that you were wrong to do what you did, but it really threw Fury for a loop."

"Let me guess," he replied dryly. "He thought I had finally cracked from the strain? How did he explain my luring away Barton and Romanov? Hypnosis?"

She shrugged slightly. "He was more inclined to think that they elected to come along to keep you out of trouble, out of some misguided sense of loyalty. Instead it turns out that we were the idiots all along in this little charade." She glared at the screen that showed the enhanced drawing. "He even managed to find a body that looked reasonably like her. We're going to have to figure out whether or not to charge him with another count of murder, or if he stole a corpse from a morgue somewhere."

"The disappearance of a body would have brought too much attention," he guessed. "It's more likely that he found someone who wouldn't be missed."

She was quiet for a moment, her face twisting into a troubled expression as Dorian began recounting the incident with the nurse. "Coulson-"

"I don't want to hear a word about it, Hill. She's fine."

She hesitated, and nodded. "They had the staff, you know."

He turned sharply to stare at her. "Excuse me?"

"Loki's staff. The researchers in his department were working with it." She shook her head before he could say anything. "Don't worry, we have a team escorting it to the Fridge as we speak."

"If Loki met with one of Dorian's confederates-"

"They arranged a trade," she finished with certainty. "The question is, what would Dorian want badly enough to risk giving away the staff? Someone would notice its disappearance, sooner rather than later- it is a rather high profile object."

"He wasn't anticipating needing to explain himself," he said heavily, and they exchanged a look. "Because Loki is either taking another run at domination, or intends to cause enough chaos that Dorian's part in the mess would be overlooked."

"He's pretty happy to explain himself now." Her expression was glum. He had never seen this many expressions cross her face in so short a time; it truly was a red letter day. "He just needs to get past his version of torture porn and tell us what the hell Loki wants."

"I am perfectly happy to go and convince him to get to the point." His hands were practically itching with the desire to pummel the smug bastard.

Said smug bastard then segued into an almost rapturous speech about the delicacy of Jemma's skin and how easily it split beneath a scalpel, and that was it, that was _it_, he was going to kill him.

"Don't do it," Maria said tonelessly as he reached for the door. She herself was leaning sideways against the glass, examining her nails, and as he wrenched open the door she turned ostentatiously away from the window and the cameras, her expression carefully blank.

Fury yelled a great deal when Phil punched Dorian in the face, but seeing as that was the extent of his reaction Phil considered it a token protest, at best.

"What did Loki promise you in exchange for the staff?" he asked firmly, grabbing the back of Dorian's neck with one hand. He had spent several decades honing his particularly bland, almost passive, methods of interrogation, and here he was using violence. A part of him was sickened by the change. The rest of him was pleased by the look of fear in Dorian's eyes. "I want to know where he is."

"The Guest House, obviously," Dorian replied, looking somewhat shocked that Phil had even needed to ask. "I wanted the formula for GH325. I requisitioned an extra vial when I did my work with you, but I couldn't unlock all of its secrets before I needed to use it on Simmons." His expression was disgruntled. "I never thought he'd actually find someone who could do it."

Phil released the other man abruptly and turned to Fury. "Where is the Guest House?"

"Oh, did he take _her_?" Dorian asked suddenly. "That's almost poetic, isn't it?"

This time Fury did intervene, shoving Phil out the door before he could land another blow. "I will take you there myself once we've gathered a sufficient force," Fury said quietly and grimly, blocking the entrance with his body. "Until then, take a damn nap. Or a valium."

"Come on," Maria said quietly as he seethed outside of the shut door. "I know you won't sleep, but you need to eat, at the very least."

Her efforts at dragging him away were much more effective than Skye's had been; he was halfway down the hallway before he managed to pull her to a stop.

"Don't feel bad," she said. "You're tired and overwrought. I'm sure I would never be able to do this otherwise."

"Now you're just humoring me."

"Yes."

* * *

There was no time for a thorough decontamination of the lab, not when she could hear the thump of one of her temporary blockades collapsing against the pressure of the rising water. The shouts of the guards echoed along the halls, but Loki had not yet made an appearance. Had he left the premises for the day? If so, so much the better.

She grabbed a gallon of bleach out of the supply closet and quickly jury-rigged the tubing connected to the incubator, allowing nearly a quarter of the liquid to spill onto the floor before reversing the flow, piping the bleach into the tank itself. It was the best she could do to destroy the biological value of the corpse; she couldn't take the risk that the structural integrity of the incubator would somehow hold out against the flood she had created.

The vials were even easier to dispose of. She pulled on a pair of gloves and filled a bucket with bleach, and then systematically broke open the seals on every single vial in the lab, tossing them into the bucket with abandon, along with what remained of her blood sample. By the time she had finished, the room looked as if it had been ransacked, and she was feeling a little bit lightheaded. She hoped it was just the after-effect of the rush of adrenaline, or even just a reaction to the bleach fumes.

All in all, she had destroyed what must have taken someone months, if not years, to create in the space of roughly ten minutes. To her consternation, she found that she was standing in perhaps a quarter inch of water, which was leaking steadily under the shut door. Water was coming in around the sides, as well, but only three or so inches up. When she opened the door a small wave splashed around her ankles, flooding past her into the room like the tide.

She was back on dry ground after a few minutes of sloshing through the murky water, and she took a moment to glance back at the curving hall. A few lights still gleamed eerily underneath the water, and in the seconds she paused the encroaching flood reached her once again, lapping against her wet shoes. Jemma turned away from the drowned hall and ran for the exit, hoping that the doors would be unlocked and open.

They were, and she dashed through them and up the stairs, sprinting past the arguing guards into the moonlight. She had lost track of the time, had expected to find herself back in the sun-drenched dry terrain, but now the night was cold. She was still wearing her lab coat over her clothing, but it made little difference in the crisp air.

A hand grabbed her arm suddenly, jerking her around, and she found herself face to face with the nameless guard.

"What the fuck did you do?" he asked her in a panic, his hand squeezing her arm in a way that told her she would be bruised come morning. "Why the fuck did you release the dam?"

There really wasn't an answer she could give him that he would accept, so she went with the truth. "Because this bunker shouldn't exist," she said stubbornly, beginning to shiver in reaction to the chill and the knowledge that she had essentially jumped from one bad situation to another. "The serum that lab produces should never have been used on anyone."

"That wasn't your call," a smooth voice said from behind her, and the guard released her arm abruptly. She turned to meet Loki's dark gaze. "We made a deal, Jemma."

"There is no such thing as a deal between abductor and abductee," she responded, trying to keep her voice steady. "The power imbalance is too great."

He nodded slightly, though he looked to be more acknowledging that she had spoken and less acknowledging the content of her words. The water was beginning to creep out of the doors and up the slope to where they stood, and a part of her wondered just how far it would come before the lake was tapped out. "I don't know what to do with you," he admitted, actually looking perplexed. "You have sabotaged my chance at retrieving a very useful item, and yet I have to admit that I am impressed by your ingenuity. Most people would set fire to something, but you- you drowned a desert." He snapped the last part as the water crept to their feet.

There really wasn't anything to say to that, so she remained quiet, waiting for the moment when his verdict would fall. She felt the oddest urge to apologize- not to him, certainly. Maybe it was to herself, or to Phil, or to the fetus that was, at best, a quarter inch long.

"Luckily, you are still a valuable bargaining tool," he said finally, appearing unconcerned that he was now ankle deep in water. "I'm sure they will be very interested in you now that you are with child."

She gaped at him, missing the critical moment when she could have attempted to play it off with a scoffing laugh. "How-"

"Do you think I can't tell a breeding woman when I see her?" he sneered. "It was a guess that is now a certainty."

He grabbed her arm when she instinctively turned to run further into the desert, and she found herself wishing that she had merely dived back toward the now submerged doors. With a second's worth of luck she might have evaded his grasp and swum inside, and then- well, that would have been that.

"No, that will not do," he chided, leaving her feeling like a small child who had colored outside the lines. "We are leaving, and we are leaving now."

With that, the world disappeared for a second time, leaving behind two very confused guards and a small, newly formed lake.

* * *

Maria stood over him until he ate the sandwich she obtained from a vending machine, looking as if she would be pleased to hold her gun to his head if he dared complained about the subpar quality of the food. When he finished, glaring at her, she eyed him thoughtfully and supplied a large cup of coffee. He had been half-afraid that she would hit him over the head with a chair and get him to sleep in that way; at least she realized that she had reached the end of her influence with him.

As odd as the day had been, he found that he wasn't surprised when Thor strode into the cafeteria, looking entirely out of place despite his jeans and flannel shirt.

"They told me that you let lived, and I am afraid that I laughed at brother Barton," the blond man said in his characteristically expansive fashion. "What sorcery is this, son of Coul?"

"If I knew, I would tell you," Phil replied, receiving the comradely slap to the back that Thor dealt out with nary a wince. "How long have you been here?"

"I have been staying with the lovely Jane." Thor's smile was effusive. "I apologize for not coming sooner. Shield-sister Natasha was not able to find me until yesterday."

"She told you that Loki had returned?" Maria stepped up to join them, arms crossed over her chest.

"Ahh." Thor looked sheepish. "I'm afraid we had a spot of trouble in Asgard."

Never a good sign; Phil was willing to wager that what was a spot of trouble in Asgard would have been a calamity on Earth. "How so?"

Thor then proceeded to tell them an outrageous story about Loki ruling Asgard while wearing a glamour that made him appear to be Odin, and the uproar that had occurred when an outraged Odin finally managed to escape his prison and confront his double in the throne room.

All in all, a fairly standard Wednesday for the royal family of Asgard.

"So, in conclusion," Thor said, "I am afraid he has returned for a second try at Midgard."

"Hopefully sans Chitauri hoard." Phil pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation, wondering where he might find some aspirin. "What kind of interesting technology might he have brought with him this time?"

"He had access to the treasure house," Thor said. "It is entirely likely that he found something of use there."

"Wonderful," Phil said dryly, trying to tamp down his annoyance. "He could have anything to use against us."

Thor gave him a very perceptive look, and it was like being psychoanalyzed by a labradoodle. "Has he taken aught from you, son of Coul?"

Phil could hear Maria stifling a slight laugh beside him. "He took my wife," he replied flatly, and Thor's returned expression was that of sudden merriment.

"I congratulate you on taking a bride, good friend!" Thor faltered somewhat, and continued. "I am sure my brother is acting as befits a prince of Asgard."

There was an uneasy silence as they all considered the multitude of ways that phrase could be interpreted. "I certainly hope he is behaving like a gentleman," Phil said, allowing an edge to creep into his voice, "because if I do not get her back safely I will do far worse than shoot him through a wall."

"Of course!" Thor was really much too jovial for someone who had just been informed of his brother's possible doom. "You are a warrior, and must act as such." He slapped Phil on the back again. "I assure you, my friend, my brother will not escape his next cell."

Phil thought that was a rather futile assurance, but he appreciated the thought. "I thank you for that, Thor."

Thor seemed to read his uncertainty, and his expression sobered. "I speak the truth, son of Coul," he said sadly. "As my mother no longer lives, there will be no one other than I to intercede for him- and I am afraid that my father does not accord me the same indulgence he granted my mother."

There was something in Thor's eyes that told Phil more about Loki's coming punishment than words would have, and he found himself remembering snippets of Norse mythology. There were stories about Odin sewing mouths shut, or binding a prisoner so that he lay beneath the slow, ceaseless drip of acid. Phil was suddenly certain that these were not just stories, but true accounts. It gave him priceless insight to Loki's desperation, and it terrified him.

Maria seemed to be thinking much the same thing. "He has nothing to lose," she murmured, and after a moment Thor nodded.

"He is fighting his last battle," the other man said. "I fear it will be a bloody one."


	21. Malus domestica

_as the sweetapple reddens on a high branch_  
_high on the highest branch and the applepickers forgot-_  
_no, not forgot: were unable to reach_  
-Sappho (Carson)

She woke up alone, on the floor of a sparsely furnished flat that was, not surprisingly, completely locked down. Her shoes and the bottom of her trousers were still damp, so she had not been out for very long- perhaps only ten or twenty minutes. The view out of the windows told her nothing more than that she was in some unidentifiable city, the sky gray with drizzling rain.

"I get myself into the oddest situations," she muttered, searching the cabinets in the small kitchenette. She found a few apples which she quickly pushed out of view, her stomach churning at the mere sight of them. The small cache of granola bars she tucked immediately into the pockets of her trousers. There was bottled water in the small fridge, and little else.

It wasn't in his best interest to starve her, she acknowledged grimly. He would keep her fed until she was off his hands. It was unlikely that she would be able to taunt him into striking without thinking, not when what made her so valuable to him was nestled quiet and fragile within her.

In any case, Jemma was very against dying, at this point. She was finished with literally giving her life to things she didn't want to give her life to; as soon as she got out of here she would be collecting her husband and settling down in the back of beyond with flowers and sheep and one blue-eyed, dimpled baby.

She was willing to forgo the sheep- would prefer to, in all honesty- but she would be damned if she gave up anything else.

Jemma prowled through the flat a second time, eyeing everything with a view toward escape. Natasha had taught her how to pick locks, but she had nothing with her that would serve as a lockpick, not even a hair pin. All of the windows had been nailed securely shut, and she didn't have a hope of prying out the nails with her bare hands, not unless she was willing to completely shred her fingers.

There was, however, a window that led directly out onto a fire escape, and one somewhat sturdy chair at her disposal. She hefted the chair in her hands, considering its weight and the likelihood that it would take out the glass before shattering into pieces itself. Doubtless the noise would draw attention of some kind, but would falling into the hands of the local police be much worse than staying under Loki's thumb?

She supposed that would depend on the local laws and whether or not she knew the language. At this particular moment, she was willing to take the risk.

The chair smashed through the glass with a satisfying crash, leaving jagged edges still clinging to the window frame. Jemma scraped the chair along the edges, removing as much of the glass as possible before pushing aside the busted screen and climbing out onto the rusty if sturdy fire escape. It was cold, which was no surprise, seeing as it was some unknown day in early December, and her fingers stiffened quickly between the low temperature and the misty rain as she tried to jimmy the ladder free. It finally released and unfolded to the pavement with a clang, and she climbed down it as quickly as possible.

She was in an alley, and the noise she had made during her escape had been covered up by the honking of horns nearby. Judging by the irate, incessant sound, someone or something was blocking traffic, much to the irritation of everyone else.

Jemma edged slowly out onto the sidewalk proper, shivering in her thin layers of clothing. She tucked her scraped hands into the pockets of her lab coat and began walking briskly north, trying to look as if she knew exactly where she was going. The signs were in English, at least, and after a few minutes she determined that she was somewhere in North America. As there was not a trace of French on any of the street signs, she doubted she was anywhere in Canada, which told her that she was most likely in the United States.

She turned right at the next intersection. and there before her lay Pike Place Market.

She was, without a doubt, in Seattle, and she would have laughed aloud with glee if she hadn't been shivering so hard.

Finally- _finally_- she had the advantage.

She hastened toward the lowest level, moving quickly through the crowds gathered around the fishmongers and fruit stands, weaving past the tourists who inexplicably chose to stop right in the middle of the aisles. She garnered a few odd looks as she walked, the eyes of others drawn to her damp, unseasonable clothing and her hurried pace. Finally she turned into a small shop at the end of an aisle which specialized in comic books.

"Excuse me," she asked the proprietor, hoping that her information was still good. She was the only customer in the shop, and the man outweighed her by at least fifty well-muscled pounds. "I'm looking for the forty-seventh issue of _Captain America_."

He gave her a patient look, his gaze sharpening slightly. There was no such issue in print, as well she knew. "Phil Coulson sent me," she continued, and he smiled.

"I have a copy in the back," he said, his voice level and calm. "Follow me."

* * *

"I'm guessing this facility isn't typically underwater," Phil commented in an acidic tone as they stared at the submerged doors. "Or are wetsuits commonly distributed to employees?"

Fury, who was glowering impressively, declined to comment.

"Jemma did this," Fitz said with a small, secretive smile. "When she gets angry, she's a sight to behold." He cut a glance at Phil. "Bit more destructive than she usually goes for, though."

If Fitz was trying to imply that Phil was a bad influence, his words would only land on purposefully deaf ears. If Jemma had done this- and she most likely had, and he was very impressed by her ingenious method- Phil's only worry was what kind of retribution Loki would bring against her.

There was a shout in the distance, and a brief flurry of activity as the two men who stumbled across the terrain to them were searched and seen to by a medic. They were dehydrated and sunburned, and looked relieved to be in the presence of actual humans.

"That crazy bitch opened the floodgates," one gasped, and Phil forced himself to hang back, the better to let him prattle. "The control room was underwater before we could do anything."

"Did she get out alive?" Phil asked him, relying on years of experience to keep his voice calm. "Where is she now?"

"Came flying out of the exit like the devil was pursuing her," the other guard replied, coughing. He was eyeing Phil cautiously. "Still on your feet, I see."

Phil gave Fury a meaningful look. "I've been here before, then?"

"You know you have, Phil," Fury snapped back. "You might not remember, but you already figured that part out."

"It was the footage," one of the guards said darkly, glaring at the other. "The footage freaked her out, you moron."

"How was I to know that she would go on a rampage?" the other protested. "Causing a flood is not a normal reaction to anything."

"What exactly did you show her?" Phil asked, enunciating his words slowly and clearly.

The guards exchanged a look. "Some footage from… from your stay here," one said cautiously. "It wasn't my idea."

Phil could only imagine what had been in that footage, judging by Jemma's obviously outraged reaction.

"I love her," Clint said unexpectedly from beside him. "As a sister, obviously. Sorry, Phil, but from now on when I need someone devious to plot with I am calling Jemma first."

"And where is she now?" Phil asked, ignoring Clint, his patience wearing at the edges.

"Gone," said the guard who apparently had decided that showing Jemma footage of brain surgery was an excellent idea. He quickly continued as everyone leveled _yes, and?_ looks at him. "The scary dude that was with her took her- they just disappeared into thin air."

"Oh, good," Clint muttered. "Teleporting. Excellent."

"Did he say anything to indicate where he might be taking her?" Fury stepped forward. "Think carefully."

Both guards shook their heads. "He just said that he could still use her to bargain with them- didn't specify who 'them' might be," one replied. "He thought they might be interested in her, seeing as she's in the family way."

It was one of those rare moments when time seemed to slow and warp even as his brain suddenly sped up with shock and a multitude of tumbling thoughts. Distantly he heard what sounded like Fitz making an undignified squawk of protest, but that was secondary to the rush of images that bombarded him. He could see, almost as if via premonition, Jemma and their child, the images coming in no kind of chronological order: Jemma cradling an infant, her head bent toward the downy hair covering the fontanelle; Jemma laughing on their bed in Lima, his hands pressed against her ripe belly; a toddler stumbling across green grass.

In less than a second reality slipped back into place, and Phil realized that everyone was watching him carefully for his reaction. "Once he realizes Dorian has been taken into custody she'll be less useful to him," he said heavily. "We need to find them before he tries to make contact."

Natasha's gaze was almost piercing. "She'll still be valuable to him as a hostage," she corrected quietly. "He'll figure out that we've reconciled with SHIELD. Once he does, he will try to bargain with you, Phil."

"Unacceptable," Fury said firmly. "I'm sorry, Phil, but there is only so far we can go."

"Oh, I know," Phil replied with considerably more calm than he actually felt. "I don't intend to give him anything, Nick," he continued as he turned and began walking back toward the plane.

"That's code for, 'I'm going to rip him to pieces'," he heard Clint explain helpfully.

Close enough.

* * *

The proprietor- whose name was Jake Miller, and who had an impressive collection of well-thumbed volumes in ancient Greek and Sanskrit tucked in the bookshelves of his office- turned on a white noise machine and gestured for her to take a seat.

"I haven't heard from Phil in over a year," he said, turning on an electric kettle and pulling a blanket out of a drawer. "How is he?"

"Well, the last time I saw him," she replied, shrugging off the lab coat and pulling the blanket around herself. Her teeth were beginning to chatter. "We were separated a few days ago."

"Not willingly, I'm guessing." He gave her a sympathetic look and held out a small first aid kit. "You're bleeding," he said, and gestured toward her right temple. "Just a little cut."

"Thank you." She attended to the small wound as best she could without a mirror, watching him carefully as he pulled out a box of tea bags.

"Darjeeling okay?" he asked, showing her the label. "Not the fanciest of stuff, but you look half-frozen."

"That would be lovely."

"You don't need to tell me your story," he continued. "A friend of Phil's is a friend of mine, and he wouldn't tell just anyone about me. So- what do you need?" He poured water into two mugs and placed them on the desk. "I will warn you that my supplier for IDs was in a car wreck a few months ago, so I can't get you that. But clothes, food, shelter, transport- that I can do."

"And a gun?" she asked. It wouldn't do much against Loki, but she would take whatever protection she could get.

"'Fraid not," he replied with a shake of his head. "I don't deal in weapons anymore, and if you were taken into police custody for some reason it would only get you into more trouble. A foreign national without a passport _and_ with an illegal weapon? No, too dangerous."

"Fair enough." She sighed and wrapped her cold hands around the warm mug, watching as the tea steeped, the water slowly darkening to amber. "I don't know where to go. And you need to know-"

"That someone is chasing you?" he finished. "You have the look. I'm no stranger to dangerous people, don't worry. As for where to go…"

He shrugged. "You don't have to decide right away. I have a safe house outside the city; you can stay there until you know of a better place."

"He's not just dangerous," she told him quietly, her words barely audible over the hum of the machine. "Loki will be looking for me."

He froze in his seat. "Loki. As in, pissed-off-god-who-made-a-mess-of-New-York Loki."

"The very same." She watched him worriedly. If he kicked her out, at least she was a little warmer than she had been ten minutes ago. "I'm sorry for bringing such trouble to your door."

"No, you were right to come," he said slowly, and stood. "Forget about the safe house," he continued, and opened a small closet. "We're both getting out of the city right now. I don't have any spare clothing, but this jacket should keep you warm enough for the moment."

She stood and pulled it on as he gathered various items around the office, including a laptop and a locked strongbox, before moving to the front of the shop. The hem of the jacket fell below her hips, and she pulled its hood over her head as she followed him.

He handed her the laptop bag. "Carry that, if you would," he said, opening the cash register and emptying it of every bill and cent. "We'll keep to the back roads, maybe hit a store sometime this evening to get you a few changes of clothing. Do you have any money?"

"No," she responded, clutching the bag to her front. "I-"

She stopped, and glanced down at her rings. "I have these," she said after a moment, extending her left hand to him. "We can pawn them."

He sighed almost mournfully. "Phil is going to kick my ass if I have to pawn his wife's wedding rings." He caught her surprised look. "Jemma, Phil and I have an agreement. Like I said, he's not going to tell just anyone about me."

He finished stuffing the cash into the strongbox, which also held a number of comic books. Mint, she would guess. The rarest of the rare. "Those rings don't look like his style, though, or yours, for that matter."

"Long story," she said quickly. "Believe me when I say that he would rather I pawn them than run short on money."

"Good enough." He took a last look around the shop before hitting the lights and flipping the sign to closed. "Allons-y."

* * *

Natasha sat quietly across from him on the plane, her gaze thoughtful. "Phil, don't do anything stupid."

He glared at her, looking away from the Starkpad in front of him. "I'm a driven man, Natasha."

"I know." She nodded agreeably. "Just keep in mind that Jemma would much rather have you alive than tell your son or daughter about whatever brave heroics might take your life a second time."

That gave him pause. "I can't hold myself back, Nat. Not if that means the difference between getting her back safely and not."

"We don't even know if she is still with him," she pointed out. "Jemma's resourceful; you know that. And she isn't stupid- though perhaps she can be a bit rash," she conceded with a small smile. "If she sees an opportunity to slip away safely, she'll take it. And if he catches her in the act-"

Her smile dimmed, and she shrugged. "He wouldn't dare do anything to her, Phil. She's his golden ticket."

"Uh, guys?" Skye strode quickly toward them, a tablet in her hand. "Twitter says a dark-haired man in armor set Haight-Ashbury on fire, and I don't think it was in protest of anything."

"Is it trending?" Natasha asked wryly.

"Yes," Skye replied, scrolling through her twitter feed. "And the pictures look like him, but seriously, there is no good reason for him to set the Haight on fire. It's just hippies and vintage clothing shops."

"One of which is a cover for another SHIELD research facility," Phil said with a pained sigh, taking the tablet from her.

"Really?" Skye stared at him, aghast. "What kind of people do you have staffing that place? The Fitzsimmons types would stick out like sore thumbs."

"You'd be surprised." He nodded at the photos. "He's in the right place. Luckily they have some very advanced firewalls set up. What do you think, Nat? Would he be more interested in their research on nanotechnology or their attempts to recreate Greek fire?"

"The latter, most likely." She frowned. "They hadn't gotten very far, last time I checked- but then, I've been distracted."

"This is what you get for writing off the hippie squadron as small potatoes." He handed the tablet back to Skye. "Have you told Fury, yet?"

She shook her head. "I don't report to Fury," she said quietly and stubbornly. "I report to you." She sighed when he gave her a tired glare. "I could hear him yelling about it on my way here. He knows, okay?"

"Everyone knows," Clint chipped in, appearing from out of nowhere. "This is very tragic. They made my favorite arrows there, you know. They exploded on impact. They were awesome."

"Until one went 'accidentally' astray and hit the telecommunications panel on the roof of the New York office," Natasha reminded him with a fond smile.

"It was the wind," he insisted with a straight face. "I am still very put out that Fury confiscated them."

"And I'm sure the agents who cleaned up the mess are still very put out that you were issued them at all." Phil looked out the window, considering the kind of damage Loki could do to a city with any kind of even halfway authentic Greek fire. Tossing it into the local water treatment plant alone would create a full-scale panic.

He did his best not to think of its probable effect on the human body, whether thrown on the skin or ingested. No, he absolutely would not consider the idea of Jemma being even in the same time zone as Loki and a bucket of incendiary liquid.

"Also, I hate to bring this up, but Fitz is kind of in a snit," Skye muttered. "I'm only saying something because I'd rather this was taken care of now, instead of Fitz tripping AC into the path of a stray bullet."

"I'll keep an eye on him." Phil turned in his seat to see May lingering in the aisle. "Knock him over the head if I have to."

"Do you think he'll need it?" Natasha asked her in mild interest.

"I think he spent a great deal of time worrying about her the first time she went missing," May replied coolly. "Reading her file changed him."

"He got kind of scary for a while," Skye agreed. "Obsessive, even. I thought he was over it, but obviously not."

Phil thought he might understand that kind of mindset. If Fitz blamed himself- and the signs had been there, even before Phil left the Bus- perhaps he had hoped that giving Jemma everything he thought she wanted would be a start at making amends. Everyone had thought that Fitzsimmons would eventually be Fitzsimmons in truth; Fitz had just followed the idea to the logical conclusion.

That Fitz loved Jemma was without question. If this love was compounded by a frustrated desire to wrap her in cotton wool, as Jemma herself had once put it, then it was hardly surprising that he was upset.

And, of course, there was her pregnancy to consider. Phil couldn't blame him for being thrown into an additional tailspin at that; Phil himself was still reeling. It was a pleasant kind of shock, though, or it would be once the danger had passed and he could consider the idea without feeling a surge of anxiety.

"Leave him be, for the moment," he finally said, rubbing his forehead. "We can't police the way he feels, and he deserves to work through it at his own pace."

"Very noble of you," Clint commented dryly. "And when I tell Jemma why a flock of nanobots smothered you in your sleep, I'm sure she will take comfort in your dedication to honor."

"Thank you, Clint."

* * *

Jemma stepped out of Jake's truck, blinking in bewilderment at the sight before her. "We're taking that with us?" she asked in amazement. "Aren't we trying to stay under the radar?"

Jake shook his head, grinning. "Sometimes a little bit of eccentricity is an even better cover than blending in." He began hitching what appeared to be a small wooden house to the back of his truck. "As an added bonus, now we can avoid motels. Believe me, we'll be a lot more comfortable in my cabin than in one of those mildewed disasters, and Loki'll be less likely to check for us at RV camps."

"Is it even an RV?" She circled the small building curiously. It was, indeed, on wheels, but there the resemblance stopped.

"Twenty feet long, eight feet wide. It's legal to tow in all fifty states without a special permit, and yes, I do have it registered as an RV." He secured the hitch and unlocked the small door. "Give me ten minutes to pack a few things away and unhook the water, sewage, and power, and we'll be on our way."

The interior was cozy, but the cathedral ceiling that vaulted over the main living area made it seem surprisingly spacious. There was a small kitchen, a bathroom, and a sleeping loft, and all of it was as neat as a pin. It was a little bit like standing in a doll's house, and she found it charming, if a tad odd.

He quickly and efficiently packed dishes and other loose items into cabinets and drawers, securing the small doors so that nothing would fly open on the road. "So, midwest okay with you? Lots of land to hide in." He glanced up suddenly. "Don't suppose you could do anything about that accent?"

She shook her head regretfully, then, on impulse, lifted her hands. "I don't suppose you know sign language?" she asked, her fingers moving in concert. Her signing was rusty- she had learned during her first doctorate, as a form of stress relief- but she expected it would come back fairly quickly.

He grinned. "Pretty well," he replied, signing back. "Excellent. Consider yourself deaf henceforth. What should I call you?"

_Call me Daisy_, she signed.

"Daisy it is."

They stopped in a small town a few hours southwest of Seattle, where Jemma detoured briefly into the local superstore and bought several changes of clothing and basic toiletries. After a moment's thought she also threw a bottle of prenatal vitamins into her basket, ignoring Jake's raised brow.

It was a relief to shower and pull on clean clothing, and even more of a relief to trade the bra she had been wearing for the sports bra which she had bought. Her breasts had begun to ache in the past few days, which would have been more irritating if she hadn't been concentrating on more pressing matters. She didn't think that she had changed cup sizes, but she certainly felt on the verge. The added support of the stretchy fabric made her feel less like snarling at everyone in general.

She wasn't showing yet, and wouldn't for several weeks at least. Jemma hoped that she would be back with Phil before that time. She wanted him with her throughout the pregnancy, as much for the comfort of his presence as a desire to see his reaction to every stage. He would be happy, or she was fairly sure he would be.

Jemma shifted her weight, blushing as she stared at herself in the small mirror. Just thinking about him made her feel aroused, and though she knew it was partially a reaction to the hormones flooding her body, that didn't make her feel any less self-conscious. She fairly ached for him, and it was a mix of desire and a longing that wasn't sexual at all, that was more akin to the biological need for oxygen.

She sighed, her hands clasping around the lip of the sink as she took in a few deep breaths, pushing away the wash of warm feelings. She would deal with this as best she could, under the circumstances. Taking care of herself was the first priority, after avoiding angry Asgardians. Proper food, vitamins, and sleep- she could do all those things.

Maybe she would find Phil before Christmas. What a lovely Christmas gift that would be, to whisper the news in his ear with his arms around her, to go to bed with him in celebration and ride him until-

No, she scolded herself silently. That kind of thinking was counterproductive at the moment, especially when she was sharing roughly one hundred and fifty square feet with a veritable stranger. She had been celibate for several years before Phil, there was no reason for her to be ruled by hormones now, even pregnancy induced ones.

Oh, but she _missed_ him. She wanted to laugh with him and hold his hand, to see his sleeping face in the early hours and discuss anything and everything with him. If this was absence making the heart grow fonder, it was wretched; she would be much happier letting the heart grow fonder in his presence.

Jemma splashed cold water on her face and steeled herself before opening the bathroom door. She was _British_, for goodness sake. She could affect a stiff upper lip like no one else, and she would use it to her advantage now.

* * *

The fires- seemingly small, seemingly random- dotted across the world as the days passed. It was impossible to tell where the next would appear; one day a tiny suburb on the outskirts of Salt Lake City would be set ablaze, the next, an old hotel in Berlin.

The only thing the sites had in common was that each sheltered some branch of SHIELD, the tiny labs that housed the more esoteric experiments that had were not dangerous enough to find a place in the Sandbox or the Fridge. It quickly became clear that Dorian's allies had told Loki more than they had originally thought, that they had in essence given him a damned map that held the keys to the kingdom.

Phil slept regularly now, out of necessity and because both May and Natasha had separately informed him that not doing so would have unfortunate consequences. He had slipped back into being Agent Coulson, who kept his emotions tightly under lock and key, and if that worried anyone- and it did, he could see it in Skye's eyes, and in the way Clint, Natasha, and May watched him- he couldn't bring himself to care.

It was only at night that he allowed the mask to slip ever-so-slightly, in the dark hours when control was harder to maintain. He would finish making dinner and realize that he had inadvertently made enough for two- he, who had mastered the art of gourmet cooking for one. There was a copy of _What to Expect When You're Expecting_ on his Starkpad that he did not remember purchasing, but by now had read twice over.

He dreamed of her, and he was unsure which dreams were worse: the ones where he followed her bloody footsteps down a jungle path, or the quietly happy ones where he did little more than hold her close, listening to her breathing and feeling the beat of her heart.

To wake up alone after such a dream was always a punch to the gut.

There was no direct contact from Loki himself, nor a whisper of Jemma through the back channels. She would never contact SHIELD, not even in a truly desperate situation, but he had hoped that she would call Natasha's secure line, given the opportunity- and so he continued to hope, until cellular service in North America ceased abruptly on the 20th of December.

It would be fair to say that that was the day that he gave up a little bit of hope.

Just a little.


	22. Myrtus communis

_About her hair she twined that herb of passion [the myrtle] which Kythereia [Aphrodite] loves as much as the rose, as much as the anemone._  
-_Dionysiaca_ 32.10, Nonnus (Rouse)

Jake was a pleasant traveling companion, who put up with the teary mood swings that seemed to happen more and more frequently as the days passed with an aplomb that was most likely worthy of sainthood.

"My sister has three kids," he said sympathetically once, handing her a box of tissues. "She cried buckets the first trimester, every time."

Jemma had more to cry about than just fluctuating hormones, or, to be more specific, she had plenty of things to cry about that were made worse by fluctuating hormones. There were the troubling news stories that had begun to trickle in, the cautious whispers among the residents of the campgrounds where they spent their nights. There was the fact that at times she would cheerfully strangle someone for the chance to see Phil again, even if only to be held by him for a mere thirty seconds.

When the cellular network went down shortly before Christmas, Jake spent an evening fiddling with a CB radio, scanning the frequencies with a furrowed brow. "Lots of noise," he said finally, shutting it off. "More than I would have expected at this point." He had the laptop open at his side, and quickly logged into an email account. "Everyone and their mother is shooting skip and gumming up the works."

There was a sudden spate of raised voices across the camp, and they both held still until the shouting died away. "How bad is this going to get?" she asked him quietly.

"No clue." He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Civilization won't end anytime soon, not while we still have power and internet and television signals." He gave her a wry grin. "Contrary to popular notions, the signal can be stopped."

Her smile in return was weak. "An unfortunate fact."

"Now, if Phil would only check his email…" His voice trailed off as he scanned through the new messages in his inbox. "How spam finds this address when I so rarely use it is truly a mystery."

The internet wasn't the safest mode of communication, not in the age of surveillance. SHIELD had any number of operatives just as talented as Skye at ferreting out information online, and because of that knowledge Jemma had developed an uneasy relationship with the internet. Phil, though, had at least a dozen email addresses that were buried under so many layers of security that they could be considered reasonably safe. She had given Jake the addresses she knew about, minus the ones that routed through SHIELD directly, and he had added one more address to the list.

"He might not use that one anymore, though," he had commented in a nonchalant manner as he sent the first wave of emails, most of which bounced immediately. "It was one he used before playing Lazarus. Still."

They wound their way through the southwest, rarely staying for more than two nights in any one place. Christmas Eve found them staring over the rim of the Grand Canyon, bundled up against the frigid temperatures.

It truly was a glorious sight. Pictures had not prepared Jemma for the staggering majesty, and for a moment there was nothing more to think on than the bite of the wind against her skin and the sunset-splashed canyon before her that stretched out into the horizon.

_Beautiful,_ she signed simply, and he nodded.

"Nice to know everything hasn't gone to hell," he agreed, and they stood there a while longer as the shadows lengthened and night descended, leaving only as the first stars appeared.

* * *

_To: cap _  
_From: rlyeh _  
_Subject: Great find_

_Phil,_

_I finally found that issue of Captain America you were looking for- the Peggy Carter special edition. Mint condition, if you can believe it._

_Drop me a line. I'm on the road at the moment, so I'll come to you._

_Jake_

_PS: Cap is one lucky SOB._

* * *

Christmas morning dawned bright and early for Phil, notable only for the date and little else. The halls outside his room were quiet, though they would buzz with activity soon enough- SHIELD stopped for no holiday, remaining fully staffed regardless of what the rest of the world might be up to.

He checked his various email accounts, finding nothing of real import in any of his inboxes. On an impulse he checked his oldest accounts as well, the ones which had been gathering dust ever since he had become Phil 2.0.

He very nearly skipped over Jake's message, expecting it to be little more than a quick note about some piece of Cap memorabilia he might have gotten his hands on that he thought would interest Phil. He wasn't interested in collecting at the moment, and in the end it was only a need for a friendly word from anyone that had him clicking the subject line.

The actual content of the message gave him pause, as he tried to remember when he had asked Jake to keep an eye out for an issue that he already had (or once had, in his former life). It was the postscript that especially caught his attention, as he wracked his brain to try and figure out why, exactly, Jake would feel the need to comment on that, and-

His gaze fell by happenstance on his own email address, and it was as if he had been struck by lightning. _Jemma_. It was inconclusive, based solely on those words, but Jemma knew all of his contacts, even- especially- the ones he never discussed with anyone else. If Jemma found herself in Seattle, the absolute first person she would try and track down would be Jake.

Phil quickly shot back a casual message with a coded set of coordinates. He was experiencing the first bit of hope that he had felt in weeks, and the rush of euphoria was almost dizzying as he packed a small bag, his hands lingering once more over the pieces of Jemma's clothing that rested next to his in the drawers. He left them where they were; they were too thin for the time of year, even in layers. Jake would have seen to her immediate needs in that area, and she was more than welcome to Phil's own sweaters, if she wanted them.

"Going somewhere?" Natasha asked him curiously as they passed in the hall, her eyes lingering on his bag and his quick gait.

"I have a lead," he answered as she turned and joined him, matching his pace. "I'll be back in a few days; try to keep the others under control until then."

"You don't need backup?"

"Better if I go alone." He shook his head at her quirked brow. "I'll be careful, Nat. I don't have any intention of disappearing again, not now."

"Good." They stopped at the elevator door, and she smiled. "Bring her back safely, Phil. Clint might cry, if you don't."

"Because Clint's feelings are the ones that count in this," he replied dryly, but couldn't resist giving her a small smile. "Be careful, Nat."

She shook her head, looking amused. "Phil, if I get a chance at Loki while you are gone I fully intend to come out of the fight wearing his balls as earrings."

He instinctively winced, but found the thought absurdly cheering nonetheless. "I can always count on you."

"I'm amazing like that," she admitted with a nod as the elevator doors closed between them.

It wasn't the right weather to drive Lola, which was a pity, because Tony's 'little' improvements were actually quite useful. The body of the car was bullet-proof, now, and Tony had modified the engine so that it was getting twice the number of miles per gallon than it had before. Even if the weather had been warmer, though, Lola was too much of an eye-catcher to be driving around when things were so unsettled. One of the standard SHIELD SUVs would do for this mission, though he had a moment of misgiving about meeting Jemma in what she would recognize as a company car.

She would not be happy to find that he had temporarily resumed his role as an agent. She would understand, would see the necessity, but he feared the association would dredge up old memories that were best left in the past- particularly when Fury would inevitably decide that she needed to be officially debriefed.

Phil wasn't sure that he could protect her from that, if such an order were to come down from on high, but he certainly intended to be by her side if that should occur.

He distracted himself slightly with a little daydream of taking Jemma out for a drive in Lola on a summer's day. They could find a quiet spot in the countryside, bring a picnic and a blanket. Maybe even a bottle of champagne- after the baby was born, obviously, and how was this even his life, that he was now in a position to be flinging around phrases like 'after the baby was born'? It was delightful and terrifying all in one fell swoop, and all he could do was ride the emotional surge to its natural conclusion. There would be a baby in some unknown number of months, and he would love his son or daughter beyond all imagining, and-

The thought struck him suddenly. What if she had twins? _Twins_, dear God. Jemma was so efficient that he wouldn't put it past her to will two babies into being.

Jemma had given him this, as well as herself, and because of her he now had first steps and birthday parties and possibly grandchildren to look forward to, and he had absolutely no idea how he would repay her for the overwhelming honor. She wouldn't want jewelry, though he wouldn't mind seeing her in little more than a string of rubies- she would treasure the smaller, more valuable things: a few extra minutes of sleep while he tended to a three a.m. diaper change, his hand to hold on dark days, a quiet picnic in a secluded field.

But first things first: a road trip to Wichita with his heart practically in his throat the entire way, and the worry that she might not be waiting at the end of it.

* * *

"Hey, Daisy, how does Kansas strike you?" Jake asked her, grinning broadly. "A certain mutual friend of ours will be in Wichita in a few days."

The rush of joy was enough to make her momentarily forget the nausea that had been plaguing her for the past hour. "I love Kansas," she said effusively, peering over his shoulder at the email. Just a few friendly lines, nothing to indicate anything other than passing interest in a mint condition comic. "I've always wanted to see Wichita."

"Words few people have ever spoken," he replied dryly. "Though I am sure it has its charms."

The only charm she cared about was Phil, and she felt anxious to move. Unfortunately, they were settled for the night, and two days from Wichita at best. Three, knowing Jake, who insisted on stops for actual meals and sleep, and who also insisted she take walks with him every few hours when they were on the road. "Exercise, fresh air- babies love that shit," he said stubbornly more than once, and she always acquiesced. He did have a knack for picking out the prettiest trails and neighborhoods to explore, and she had to admit that the walking actually helped settle her stomach at times.

Now, though, she would much prefer to drive all night, though she knew that doing so would only mean arriving at Wichita well ahead of Phil.

Then again, knowing Phil, he was most likely intending on driving straight through as well, and suddenly she was quite sure that she would not be sleeping that night. She felt jittery with excitement, and hardly knew how she would make it through the next few days.

Thus it was a surprise when she laid down for the night, eyes wide and focused on the dark ceiling in the tiniest bedroom possible, and the next thing she knew it was six in the morning and Jake was asking if she thought she could stomach an omelette or not.

She could, as it turned out, and she fell asleep again once they were actually on the road. Her excitement apparently was no match to her soaring levels of progesterone, and the only thing good about her increased fatigue was that she was sleeping away most of the hours that lay between her and Wichita.

The arranged meeting place- a remote campsite outside the city proper, with trees and snow aplenty- was empty when they arrived, and continued to be empty the day after that. The first day she spent as much time as she could get away with pacing around their campsite, keeping watch for an approaching vehicle all the while.

Jake didn't try to stop her, and in an odd way it was his hands-off attitude that kept her mindful of her own behavior. The additional seconds of warning weren't worth courting hypothermia or frostbite, and it was this thought that kept her inside the second day, and the third. Staying still did allow her anxiety to bloom more freely, and her worries grew as each day passed. He might have been detained on the road, or SHIELD might have hacked his old email address- there was no telling, not with the world the way it was.

It was easier to just sleep when her body demanded it, and so she stopped fighting the impulse to skip naps. He would arrive when he arrived, or he wouldn't, and she didn't need to experience every second's worth of waiting.

* * *

Phil was fairly sure that whatever deity ruled fate was purposefully guiding him through every patch of construction and traffic in Ohio, Indiana, and Missouri. The hours he had spent in gridlock in St. Louis alone had lost him nearly half a day, and all in all the trip that should have taken him two days at best took five. He had kept his radio tuned to the local stations out of habit, and what he heard nearly everywhere he went was a slow-creeping terror that was unnerving. Loki didn't have to employ the flash and sizzle he had used during his last visit- the sheer regularity of his small destructions and the irregular geographical pattern they followed was enough to cause worry and tension. It wasn't just the large cities that had been hit: on the 29th of December a small town in Nebraska that was barely a pinprick on the map had been the unlucky recipient of Loki's largesse.

There hadn't been a SHIELD lab there, or at least not one Phil was aware of. Loki just seemed to be enjoying his arson streak at this point. Perhaps, with the loss of his hostage, he figured that pettiness was an acceptable substitute.

It was late afternoon on the fifth day when he finally arrived, breathing a small sigh of relief at the sight of Jake's toy of a house. The front door opened as he exited the car, and upon seeing him Jake tucked away his gun and closed the door softly behind him.

"You always did dawdle," the other man teased. "You hit every roadside attraction from Wheeling to Wichita, didn't you?"

"More like every roadblock," Phil replied, doing his best to tamp down his anxiety. "Jake-"

"She's napping," Jake interrupted him with a smile. "Go wake her up. I can wait out in the cold for a little bit."

Phil hesitated just inside the door, pulling off his jacket as he glanced up at the loft. Empty. There was only one other place she could be, and he quickly made his way down the short hallway to peer into the small bedroom on the right.

She was tucked under a quilt, breathing soft and deep in the dim room, and the surge of relief left him weak in the knees. He gave in to the feeling, kneeling beside her on the futon mattress that took up every inch of space in the room. She shifted slightly, but that was the extent of her reaction.

He studied her face carefully, feeling absurdly reluctant to touch her, as if she might dissolve into smoke under his hands. Was her face fuller? Just a little, he decided- the definition of her cheekbones was gentler, though that might be a trick of the dim light. There was little else for him to see other than the fingertips of her right hand, which poked out from beneath the covers.

He laid one hand gently against the side of her face, relieved to feel her warm and solid beneath his fingers. "Jemma," he murmured, smiling slightly when she stirred. "Time to get up."

She sighed and grumbled. "I don't want to drill this morning," she muttered, snuggling against her pillow. "Tell Nat to go away."

Her words were blurry and nearly incomprehensible with sleep, and he had never found her voice to be more beautiful than at that moment. "No drill," he promised, and bent down to kiss her forehead. "You can sleep in the car."

She frowned, her eyes opening slightly to stare up at him. He saw the moment when comprehension snapped into place, and she sat up with the kind of speed that nearly had their heads colliding. She didn't seem to notice, busy as she was trying to untangle herself from the covers while simultaneously throwing herself at him, inadvertently bringing most of the sheets with her.

"Oh dear," she said with an almost hysterical giggle, interrupting the frantic litany of his name that had just been spilling from her mouth. She began to laugh in truth as he reached down to jerk away the sheet that seemed intent on remaining entwined around her legs. "Hardly the grace I hoped to display at our reunion."

Giving up on the sheet for the moment, he rolled her underneath him in one swift movement, relishing her happy squeak of surprise. "I've missed that," he murmured against her neck. "It's adorable."

She was too busy tugging him up for a kiss to reply, and he was happy to oblige, sweeping his hands over every inch of her that he could reach to verify that she was as unharmed as she looked. It wasn't the smoothest of kisses that they had ever shared; it bordered on frantic and sloppy, and when they broke the kiss there was a quiet moment before they both began laughing.

"I think my level eight skills are slipping," he said, helping her sit up. "Also, this sheet might be sentient, because its grip on your calves is ridiculous."

"Well, we needed a chaperone," she replied, still laughing, holding still as he freed her legs. "Better a sheet than nothing."

He pulled the sheet away and looked up at her. She did look rather like she was on the verge of tying him down and having her way with him, and he wasn't averse to the notion. "Am I in trouble, dear?"

She grinned. "Only the very best kind."

He moved closer and kissed her a second time, tunneling his fingers through her hair. It was gentler, this time, less heated. There was no purpose to starting something they couldn't finish, or to having a quick rut on what was essentially the floor. It would be rude to Jake, for one, and both he and Jemma deserved better.

She did nip his bottom lip before they separated, and the happy, saucy smile she gave him sorely tested his self control.

"Do you think you can wait an hour before pinning me down?" he asked, pulling her to her feet. He kept a gentle grip on her hand, stroking her palm with his thumb. "I've found a safe place for us to stay the night, or even two, if you prefer." He would need to get a message to Natasha before she sent out the cavalry- or worse, The Cavalry- to retrieve them. That they needed to return to New York, and in fairly short order, was an unfortunate fact, but he had no intention of denying Jemma even a minute of whatever rest she might need.

There was also the not inconsiderable fact that he was half-starved for her, and he wouldn't be satisfied that she was truly all right until he had completed a thorough examination of her person with his own hands.

He lifted the hand he held to his lips and kissed her fingers. Her right hand, at the very least, passed inspection.

Her smile softened. "You do try a woman's patience, Phil." She pulled him into an embrace, her head on his shoulder. She was so trim that it was hard to believe that in a handful of months they would no longer be able to hold each other so closely, and it was a struggle to not bring up the topic then and there. The conversation would take too long, would be too personal to hold here while Jake froze out on the miniscule porch.

It was the need to reach a safe space for that conversation and everything that followed that made him pull away and pick up her bag. "Then we should leave before I try it further."

* * *

Jemma pressed herself as closely to his side as she could manage without tripping the both of them as they moved quickly to the front door, then balked slightly as a thought occurred to her.

"Do I look mussed?" she asked suddenly, frowning as she raised her free hand to her hair. It was not out of vanity so much as modesty, though Jake would surely know exactly what they had been up to.

"You look like you've been ravished," he replied. "It's a good look for you." He saw her frown and stopped, releasing her hand and putting down her bag so that he could smooth his own hands over her hair. "No," he said after a moment of consideration, tucking the strands behind her ears. "You still look like you've been ravished."

"Thoroughly?" she asked with a pert lilt to her voice.

"Not as thoroughly as you will be," he promised with a small smile, and she was nearly undone at the sight.

Jake, ever the gentleman, did not say a word about her appearance when they stepped out the door.

"Do you need anything?" Phil asked him. "You have a place with us in New York, if you're reluctant to return to Seattle."

Jake shook his head. "No, I need to get back to the shop; make sure those neighborhood kids continue getting their Avengers fix."

Phil rolled his eyes at that. "If they knew-"

"They'd want the comics even more," Jake finished with a grin. "It was a pleasure, Phil. Jemma's good company." He held out his hand to Phil for a solid shake. "You'd better hit the road; it's supposed to snow again tonight."

Phil nodded, and picked Jemma's bag back up. "Wait here," he said firmly, and went to put her bag in the back of the car.

"You'll send me baby pictures, I hope," Jake said quietly once Phil was out of hearing range.

"I'll make sure of it," Jemma promised, wrapping him in an impulsive hug. "Thank you so much."

_No problem_, he signed in reply.

Before she could follow Phil to the car he appeared behind her and unexpectedly picked her up. "Your shoes are too thin," he said in explanation when she raised a questioning brow. Jake looked to be hiding a smile. "Frostbite is unacceptable, Jemma."

"I'm not arguing," she said in reply, putting her arms around his neck and resisting the urge to ruffle his hair. "Again, thank you, Jake," she said as Phil turned, smiling over his shoulder as he carried her to the car. Her smile dimmed somewhat as they drew closer and she actually paid attention to the type of vehicle he was driving. "SHIELD?" she asked quietly, and his arms tightened slightly around her.

"I thought Fury might know where Loki had taken you," he replied. "As it turns out, he thought you died of bacterial meningitis two months after you left the Bus."

The shock eased the frisson of horror she had felt at seeing the familiar black SUV. "Excuse me?"

He set her gently down on the front passenger seat and spoke, continuing to lean in the open door. "Apparently he intended to tell us during our furlough," he said with a dark look. "He thought it would set us off track, if he told us earlier."

She shivered slightly at that. "If he had told you when he first heard…"

Her voice trailed off. She didn't want to think about the possibilities, didn't want to consider that they most likely would have believed Fury if presented with enough proof.

He seemed to guess her trail of thought. "Don't even consider it," he said softly, resting his forehead against hers. "You're here, and that entire damn department is now in handcuffs- yes, Dorian included- and thinking about the what ifs is just a waste of your time."

He was right, of course, and she laid her hand gently against the side of his face. "I know." It was hardly the right time to tell him about the baby, and his feet must have been freezing by that point as he lingered beside her, but she felt the sudden urge to blurt out her news. "Get in the car."

He started the engine before she could drum up the nerve to speak, and she decided to wait until they reached the hotel. She had no desire to test his response time on a slick road with unexpected news, not after so long apart.

It was a long, quiet hour, made bearable only by his proximity and his hand in hers. There was a gravity about him that made her certain that, like her, he was also waiting for the first opportune moment to speak, when they were face to face and without distractions. She leaned as close to him as her seatbelt would allow, resting her head against his shoulder and taking in quiet breaths scented by his cologne. The desire to close the distance between them was almost overwhelming, and having him so close was, in some ways, the most frustrating bout of foreplay that she had ever experienced.

It wasn't a hotel that he pulled up to, but a small cottage in the middle of nowhere. Not a SHIELD safe house, so she judged- perhaps it belonged to one of his other trusted contacts, or perhaps to Natasha and Clint. The interior was clean and minimally appointed, a fact she only had an opportunity to learn because Phil's first move after locking the door was to perform his usual sweep.

She was fairly certain that this particular ritual had never taken so long in the past, and she was unsure if it was because her impatience had reached impossibly high levels or if he was simply being extra cautious. A little of both, she guessed, and took off her coat. Jemma pulled the elastic out of her hair, shaking it out with hands trembling from excitement.

When he was done he stopped in the doorway to the small living room, staring at her in a way that nearly sent her to her knees. "Are you hungry?" he asked, startling her. It didn't seem to be a euphemism, not that she had ever known him to use euphemisms in the first place.

"A little, but-" she began hesitantly, and he immediately closed the distance between them to place his arm around her waist and gently herd her toward the kitchen. "Phil," she protested as they passed an open bedroom door. "I can wait to eat. I want to be with you."

His hand tightened on her waist, but he didn't change direction. "What kind of man would I be, if I took you to bed hungry?"

A very Phil kind of statement, but it made her suspicious, and it was that suspicion that tipped her off. "Jake told you," she said indignantly, stopping in her tracks. "He will most certainly _not_ be getting baby pictures now."

Suddenly he pulled her flush against him, burying his face in her hair. He had one hand firmly against her back and another curved around one of her hips, and the feeling of being surrounded by him almost- almost- made up for her disappointment.

"He didn't breathe a word," he murmured. "It was the guards at the Guest House."

She sighed, pressing her face against his neck and taking in a few deep breaths to steady herself. That was it, that was the key to his behavior- he had most likely spent the past few weeks obsessing over her safety _and_ over the news, and knowing him, he had done more research than was good for him. "Poor Phil," she said softly, nuzzling his neck. "You've had a lot to worry about."

He tightened his grip, and she practically purred in response. "Please, Phil," she whispered, kissing his jaw. "I burn for you."

Hardly the words she would have used before their separation and her surge of hormones, but she was practically ready to push him to the floor at this point, and she could tell that only that sense of honor that was so intrinsic to his character kept him from carrying her off to the nearest bed.

His hands flexed against her. "I need to know that you're all right."

"I am." She kissed the underside of his chin, and nipped the skin there to emphasize her point. "I will eat whatever you bring me, afterward." She paused, reconsidering the statement. "But no apples. Or tomatoes."

He released a ragged breath. "Deal." He picked her up and carried her back toward the bedroom hastily. "I stocked the kitchen," he said as he placed her on the bed, and kissed her before she could respond. She had a second's worth of time to notice that the sheets and blankets were also clean and fresh, but then the time for idle thought was past, as his hands stripped her out of her clothing quickly and efficiently, adroitly maneuvering so that her path was clear to pull off whatever pieces of his clothing she could reach.

She couldn't match his speed and she half-believed her own joke about level eight sexual techniques as he pulled off her last piece of clothing even as she had barely managed to rid him of a sweater and shirt. He hovered above her as she attended to the fastenings of his jeans, and she glanced up after pulling down the zipper to see him gazing intently down at her.

"No injuries?" he asked, and laid the fingertips of his right hand gently against her stomach. "Roll over, Jemma, I need to see."

She did after a moment of instinctive hesitation. She was no longer comfortable lying prone, as well he knew, but she recognized that desperate tone in his voice that clearly indicated that he wouldn't be content until he had inspected every inch of skin for the smallest scratch.

He smoothed his hands softly down her back, running his fingers down her spine vertebra by vertebra before moving her hair to the side to examine the back of her neck. She was safe with him, she reminded herself, and pillowed her head on her folded arms as he moved his inspection downward.

"Everything as you expected?" she asked, allowing a teasing note to slip into her voice.

In response he tickled the back of her right knee, and chuckled when she giggled reflexively. "Foul play," she protested, laughing again when he did the same to her left. "Are you done, yet?"

"Not quite." His hands swept down her calves to her feet, and he ran his thumbs over the scars on her soles. "No pain?" he continued quietly, the worry in his voice evident as he began to massage her right foot. "Not even the smallest twinge?"

She glanced back at him as best she could. "Perfectly fine," she assured him with utmost seriousness, and turned over so that she could sit up. She was almost glad that it had taken him so long to reach her, if only because her small collection of bruises and scratches had already healed. "Just a little bit cold," she said, giving him her sweetest smile when he gave her a knowing look. "Come warm me up."

He stripped off the rest of his clothing without hesitation, and in one quick move bundled her under the covers with him. "You did say you were cold," he reminded her with a sly smile when she laughed in surprise and happily moved into his arms. This was what she had been waiting for: the press of his warm skin against hers, his hands stroking her gently as he kissed her. He cupped one of her breasts, and pulled away at her muffled gasp.

"Just sensitive," she assured him, nodding when his touch turned featherlight. "Better."

He kissed his way slowly down her torso, pausing at her stomach. "How far along are you?"

"About nine weeks," she replied, running her hand over his hair. "You're going to be a father in July." She hesitated. "It is good news?"

"_Very_ good news," he said, nuzzling her stomach. "Especially now that you're here."

His voice and expression held nothing but loving sincerity, and the last of her worry melted away. "Oh, thank goodness," she sighed in relief as his mouth moved lower. "I- _oh_."

He lifted his head, his gaze innocent. "Something you would like to say?"

"No," she replied breathlessly, shaking her head. "Not at all."

It was a very satisfying reunion, not that she had expected anything less.

"I think I wore you out," she said afterward, kissing his neck. "Perhaps I should feed you."

"_No_." He sat up quickly, and it was gratifying to see that he looked nearly as disordered as she felt. "The last time you were in a kitchen by yourself I lost you for a month. Wait here."

He paused in the doorway, and she ogled him shamelessly. "Keep talking," he said. "I need to know that you're still here."

She stretched after he disappeared and then sat up, trying to stave off the fatigue she could feel lurking. "Is everyone else all right?"

"Fine," he called back. "Clint and Natasha are anxious to see you."

She smiled, pleased, as she walked into the bathroom to clean herself up. "And the others?"

The pause went on just long enough to make her heart skip a beat, but before she could move he replied. "Stark is wooing Skye into his employ with fancy computer toys, and Fitz has made quite the splash in his engineering department. He'll be running it before long, I think."

She wouldn't be surprised. "And Ward and May?"

"Still with SHIELD, with reservations." He walked back into the room and peered through the bathroom door, catching her as she tried to untangle the newest knots in her hair. "Let me take care of that," he said softly, taking the comb from her hand. She let her eyes close as he carefully eased the tangles from her hair, feeling well-loved and pampered. "Can you stay awake long enough to eat something?"

She nodded, forcing her eyes back open, and handed him an elastic when he was finished.

The tray waiting on the bed had obviously taken more than just a few minutes to put together, and it made her smile to think of him taking the time to prepare for this night before crossing the final miles to her. He had dusted and swept and made up the bed with clean sheets, and had even sacrificed a few seconds to put on the cologne she liked, seconds he wouldn't have bothered with unless he had been thinking specifically about her reaction to the small act. And here was a quick meal best eaten cold, so that she wouldn't have to wait after their drive, and she was willing to bet that everything was organic and chosen with an eye toward optimal nutritional value.

They sat up against the headboard, and when he began to feed her by hand she decided to indulge him. "You are going to fuss a great deal, aren't you?" she asked him, amused, and opened her mouth for a small cube of cheese.

"Yes," he replied in a decided fashion. "I'm going to fuss, and you will murmur, 'Yes, dear,' before continuing on with whatever I was fussing about in the first place."

"That is going to be frustrating for you." She picked up a piece of chicken and popped it into his mouth when he began to reply. "You need to eat, too. More energy for fussing."

He chewed and swallowed, using the arm he had around her shoulders to pull her a little bit closer. "Don't think I'll be any better after the baby is born."

"Oh no," she agreed. "Phil Coulson, level eight fusspot." She grinned at his stern look. "You disagree?"

He shook his head with a sigh and offered her a grape. "I've even missed the teasing," he admitted, pressing a kiss to her hairline. "Especially missed the teasing, perhaps."

"And I've missed your fussing." She had, truthfully. She had missed their gentle give and take, and now, in her very relaxed state, she was willing to let him coddle her as much as he wished.

She pushed aside everything else that was begging for her attention at the moment- SHIELD and Loki being the most prevalent bothersome topics- and relaxed into him as he continued to feed her. They would address those issues in the morning. For now it was just the two (_three_) of them, and all that mattered was the warmth of him against her and his lips against her hair.


	23. Lilium regale

_Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell_  
_Of different flowers in odour and in hue_  
_Could make me any summer's story tell,_  
_Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;_  
_Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,_  
_Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;_  
_They were but sweet, but figures of delight,_  
_Drawn after you, you pattern of all those._  
- Sonnet 98, William Shakespeare

Phil woke before Jemma, feeling a moment of panic before realizing that she lay just inches away, curled loosely on her side, her hair already escaping from its binding. He remained still beside her, fixing the moment in his mind. He had spent too many nights alone in a cold bed, in rooms that were too quiet without her breathing beside him.

He ran a finger lightly down her arm, her skin still as soft as he had remembered. He had been right about her face being fuller, and the same was true of the rest of her body. Nothing anyone would notice at a casual glance, but during his close inspection the night before she had been softer, her curves just a little rounder. He hadn't thought that anything could make him desire her more, but he had been wrong. He wanted to wrap himself around her and stroke her awake, to reacquaint himself with the way she sounded when he made love to her in the early morning.

It was the knowledge that she needed her sleep now, more than ever, that made him ease himself out of the bed and pull on boxers and a shirt. After attending to his own needs he logged into the email account he had specifically created to communicate with Natasha. Anyone looking through the inbox would only see the kind of letters typical for a thirty-something bachelor with an irritating sister and too much time on his hands. There were several notifications from eHarmony waiting for him, and he rolled his eyes. Clint's work, most likely. Phil didn't think he wanted to know what kind of dating profile was now attached to this email address.

He sent Natasha a short email that, on the surface, seemed to be mostly griping about planning their parents' upcoming anniversary party, but in truth told her everything she needed to know in short order: _Jemma is safe, be back soon_. It would be enough to buy them a few more days.

He looked up as Jemma rolled off the bed and ran into the bathroom, putting the laptop aside as he heard the distinctive sound of retching. She was washing her mouth out when he reached her, her body trembling slightly.

"Morning sickness," she said with a wan smile as she reached for her toothbrush. "Though it sometimes extends into the afternoon, as well."

He pulled the loose strands of her hair back and secured them as she brushed her teeth. It didn't matter that he knew this was natural and expected. Her pale face worried him, and he began considering what he might have in the kitchen that might settle her stomach. How could he bear to make her travel when she felt poorly? Perhaps she had been sleeping through the nausea, though the thought didn't make him feel that much better.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked, following her back into the bedroom. She pulled on his abandoned sweater and sat on the bed.

"Water? Maybe a few crackers." She shook her head at his worried look. "It won't be so bad in a bit." She crawled back under the covers, yawning, and held out her hands to him.

He sat on the bed next to her and took her hands in his. "Good morning," she said with a brighter smile, twining their fingers together. "I've missed you."

That much was evident, judging by the lovebites he had found on his neck and chest that morning. He returned her smile without hesitation, eyeing the color returning to her face with approval. "I've missed you, too." He leaned down and kissed her lightly. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to place a moratorium on kidnappings, Jemma. My heart can't take it."

She laughed and angled herself for another kiss. "I am perfectly willingly to abide by that request. It's the cooperation of others that will be the problem."

He could have stayed there for longer, holding her hands in his and watching her face, but she had asked for water (albeit reluctantly) and he wanted to make sure she stayed hydrated. She released his hands when he stood, and when he returned with a glass and a small plate of crackers she regarded them as if they were the specs for a particularly difficult mission. Still, she nibbled on one with the kind of stalwart determination he had come to expect from her.

"Do we need to leave soon?" She took a sip of the water and glanced at him expectantly.

"We're snowed in," he replied immediately. It was almost true- it had snowed the night before, as Jake had predicted, but they could have gotten out if need be.

"Are we?" she asked, her expression amused. "What a pity. I suppose we'll just have to cuddle to keep warm, then."

"There are worse fates." He actually couldn't think of a better way to spent a winter's day. "It's New Year's Eve."

She gave a sudden laugh. "So it is. And I have someone to kiss at midnight."

"Provided you are still awake at midnight," he ribbed her teasingly, and she smiled.

"I'll just have to take my kisses when I can get them, then." She put aside the small plate and the glass, her gaze soft. "Give me one now."

He did so, stroking his thumbs along her cheekbones. "What else can I do for you?"

She stretched. "Come take a shower with me. Safety in numbers, you know."

"As a level eight fusspot, I appreciate your forward thinking in this matter." He kissed her again when she gave him a surprised look, picking her up before she could say anything.

"You can't carry me everywhere," she said with a small grin, running her fingers along the back of his neck. "My legs still work perfectly fine."

"They are as lovely and fit as ever," he conceded, setting her on her feet next to the tub. "I was admiring them just last night. I just enjoy having you close."

Needed to have her close was more akin to the truth. She had become his great weakness, just as he had become hers- and he was certain he was, now, after her little display at the Guest House.

She shucked off the sweater, her face beginning to pale again. "You may regret that if I throw up on you."

Her earnest words struck him as being unexpectedly funny. "Jemma, I have waded through tunnels filled with sewage at least a dozen times over the course of my career. You may throw up on me whenever you like."

She laughed. "Now that is love."

* * *

He was making up the bed with fresh sheets when she left the bathroom, her wet hair leaving damp spots on the t-shirt she had filched from his luggage. Jemma had always been of the opinion that snow days required lounging clothes, regardless of the hour, and she saw no reason to start changing her ways now. "You really did think of everything," she said with an admiring look, leaning back against the door frame.

"I had an inkling," he replied, offering her a dimpled smile.

She approached him as he finished making up the bed and pressed her fingers lightly to the two dimples. "I do hope to see these on our child's face."

He blushed slightly, bless him. "I think it would be best if the baby took entirely after you. You're much prettier."

"Blue eyes and dimples," she said firmly, and only a sudden resurgence of nausea kept her from kissing him. She sat on the bed, pulling her knees up to her chest, and patted the space next to her. "Sit with me?"

"I think you need to eat," he said with a frown, sitting next to her nonetheless. "Tea? Rice?"

"In a minute," she promised, leaning against him. "I could use a cuddle."

He was always so very obliging when she asked for physical affection. She never would have guessed that, on the Bus, not from Agent Coulson of the excellent hands and congenially distant demeanor.

"We do need to leave tomorrow," he said after a moment, and she nodded.

"I know. I'll be glad to see the others, I just-"

She hesitated. "Have you been staying in one of the SHIELD apartments?" She would stay with him there, if necessary, but she doubted she would be comfortable.

"Yes," he admitted. "It was easier, when I was looking for you, but Stark offered me a place as well. If you can put up with his ceaseless chatter, I will happily take him up on the offer."

"I would prefer it," she said slowly, nestling closer to him. "I don't think I could sleep under SHIELD's roof."

"It's probably for the best," he said with surprisingly good cheer. "Most of the other Avengers are staying with Stark."

"Built-in bodyguards, you mean," she replied with a roll of her eyes.

"I am willing to take shameless advantage of their brawn and wiles."

"Will I get to meet Steve Rogers?" she asked teasingly, and he shook his head.

"Still off the grid. Stark made him read Kerouac; I could drop-kick him off of his own damn building. Thor's back, though," he said, stroking her arm. "You'll like him; his enthusiasm is infectious."

She smiled. "So he took the news of your resurrection well, did he?"

"'What sorcery is this, son of Coul?'" he quoted in a booming voice that was so ridiculous she immediately burst into laughter.

"Sorcery, indeed," she said, and her laughter ceased abruptly. "No, it was all science." She hadn't been sure that he would really want to know the how and the why of their respective resurrections, but starting in Lima their policy had always been that of absolute honesty, and she felt obliged to at least offer him the choice. "Do you want to know?" she asked quietly. "I didn't have the time to learn everything, but I know enough."

His arm tightened around her. "Tell me."

"Alien biology." She hesitated, reluctant to actually speak Loki's name aloud. Too much Harry Potter, perhaps. "He said it was a Kree- that they are a very advanced species. I don't know much more than that. It was half a corpse, essentially, and somehow they were using it as a basis for the GH325 drug." She shook her head slightly. "I've never seen a drug like that, Phil. It was so complex, so- so _unearthly_. If I hadn't been exposed to it myself, I would have considered it a miracle."

She still did, in some respects. There was a part of her that wondered if she had denied the world that great cure that had been sought after for so many years. How many cancer patients might it have saved? Could it have reversed the effects of Alzheimers, or cured multiple sclerosis and any other number of diseases?

He lifted her chin with gentle fingers and met her gaze. "What did they show you, dear?"

The tears welled up almost immediately. "One of your surgeries," she choked out, feeling absurdly as if she had invaded his privacy. "I'm afraid I lost my temper."

It had been the way he screamed and begged that justified her decision, at least in her own mind- she might be a biochemist, but she was also a student of scientific history, and had read her share of accounts of people whose attempts to play god had ended disastrously. The ends did not always justify the means.

He didn't look angry, not that she had expected him to. His expression was sorrowful, and he stroked the underside of her chin gently. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"I destroyed it all," she said. "As best I could, anyway. I can't imagine that bleach would have a beneficial effect on an alien corpse, but who knows."

"I was and remain impressed by your ingenuity." He released her chin and she tucked her head back into the crook of his neck. "You scared the hell out of me, obviously, but this is the kind of behavior I have come to expect from you."

She smiled slightly. "Reckless abandon, you mean?"

"Gryffindor bravery," he corrected. "Don't laugh at me like that. Even I have read Harry Potter."

"I never doubted it." She kissed his neck, smirking when she saw the mark she had left the night before. "I look forward to reading them to the baby, one day."

"You've been compiling a list of bedtime stories, I take it?"

"Oh, yes." She began listing them off on her fingers. "Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, _Le Petit Prince_-"

"In the original French, obviously."

"Obviously." She smiled. "Storytime with the Coulsons."

Professionally she was and would remain Jemma Simmons- her degrees had been earned under that name, and her reputation built under that name (though whether that still applied after death, she was unsure)- but she liked the idea of being Jemma Coulson in her personal life. It was old-fashioned, to be sure, but it would be one of the few traditional things about them.

"Storytime with the Coulsons," he repeated softly, playing with the ends of her hair. "Words I never thought I would hear."

"Good words?"

"Very good words."

She was loathe to let him move, but her stomach felt more settled now, and he would be the happier for feeding her. "Perhaps some of that rice, now?" She frowned. "Assuming we really have rice. Exactly how thoroughly did you stock the kitchen?" It struck her that she hadn't even made it to the kitchen yet, despite the fact that they had been there for a little over half a day.

"Too thoroughly," he admitted with a somewhat sheepish smile. "We have rice, and nearly everything else." He stood and rummaged through their bags, pulling out a pair of his socks and her pajama bottoms, and tossed them to her. "Come keep me company?"

He handed her one of his sweaters on their way out of the room, and she took it with a smile. "I was cold. Thank you."

She could have managed without, but it was a comforting gesture. She took a seat at the small table while he dug around in the cupboards, pulling out a small bag of rice and a saucepan. She had missed this, seeing him move with such ease around a kitchen, as happy to make her a bowl of plain rice as he would be making anything else.

"I love you," she said simply and earnestly when he set the bowl of rice in front of her, and gloried in his immediate smile.

"I know," he replied with unexpected swagger, taking the seat beside her and pulling her feet into his lap. "My rice preparing skills are unparalleled."

She laughed and took her first bite, relieved when her stomach did not immediately protest. "Phil Coulson, level eight smart-ass."

"I'm sensing a theme."

"Don't worry, I won't tell Clint."

* * *

They did fall asleep before midnight, but she woke him gently as the year turned round, her lips on his in the dark.

"Happy New Year," she breathed against his skin, her clever fingers at work, and between the two of them they turned it into a very happy new year, indeed.

* * *

After some trial and error, Phil fixed their driving time each day so that they left late in the morning, after her initial bout of nausea, and stopped early in the evening. It would take them longer to get back to New York, but he would rather spend a few more days on the road than aggravate her morning sickness with motion sickness.

They finally reached the outskirts of New York City on the afternoon of January the 6th, and Phil made his way directly to the Stark building. He was not surprised when the guards immediately let his car pass, but knew that they would be met shortly by Tony and Tony's best collection of annoying jokes.

In actuality, it was Clint who found them first, and he narrowly avoided being shot by Phil when he unexpectedly plucked Jemma off the ground from beside him.

"Put away the gun, Phil," Clint said with a roll of his eyes. "Can't a man say hello to his favorite platonic female-identifying person without getting shot?" He put Jemma back on her feet and ruffled her hair, grinning in the face of her sigh. "See, you were aiming for exasperated, but all I see is, 'I am so glad to see my best buddy Clint again'."

She seemed to laugh despite herself even as she smoothed her hair back into place. "I am glad to see you again," she replied cheerfully. "I have been doing my best to make up for the lack of bad jokes, but I just can't seem to reach your level."

"It takes talent," Clint said seriously. "Some of us are just born with a knack. For others, there's Maybelline."

"That barely makes sense," Phil shot back, putting his gun securely in its holster. "You should be ashamed of yourself."

"Oh, I am." He took one of the bags from Phil and led them into one of the elevators. "Nat has secured a suite from you on the Avengers floor." He gave them a wry look. "Yes, there is an Avengers floor. It's like living in a dorm, but with fancier gadgets, less beer pong, and it's only accessible via biometrics."

He placed his hand on a small screen next to the panel for floor selection. "Good afternoon, Master Barton," Jarvis said smoothly through the speakers. "Thank you for your cooperation."

"I have a hard time believing that there are so few games of beer pong," Phil said dryly, and Clint grinned in reply.

"Nat insists on playing vodka pong," he informed them. "I recommend avoiding any and all challenges she might make during the duration of your stay."

The elevator door opened onto a hall that was all glass and chrome and hardwood floors, the windows looking directly out into the heart of the city. Phil had to admit that it was impressive, and he guessed that Pepper had taken the reins when it came to decorating this particular floor, at least. It was a bit more restrained than he would have expected out of Tony.

"You're next door to us," Clint said, pulling out a key and unlocking the first door on the right on the next hall. "Don't worry, Nat already checked to make sure that Tony didn't leave any security cameras inside the apartment itself. By accident, of course."

"Of course," Phil said in a deadpan manner.

"Though Tony did try and sell us on marketing an Avengers sex tape," Clint continued, grinning at Jemma's blush. "And yes, Phil, according to Tony you count as an Avenger, so he's going to try and go over his proposed royalty rates with you. He has a presentation and everything."

"I'm not interested," Phil replied with a sigh, raising a brow at the very modern furniture. "Please tell me that no one has actually taken him up on it."

"Well, seeing as Cap is off finding himself and/or helping the downtrodden, he hasn't had a chance to ask him, but everyone else has said no."

"Wisely," Jemma commented, still blushing.

"Indeed." He handed them each a key, and proceeded to show them both how to activate building lockdown. Not much use, Phil reflected, when their enemy apparently could teleport, but better than nothing.

"So, that's that," Clint said, sauntering toward the door. "Dinner at seven in the common room, and yes, the mirror in the bedroom is a standard feature in all the apartments, which tells you more about Tony than any of us wanted to know."

He left, and they exchanged a look before Jemma disappeared down the hall. She began laughing a moment later, and when he joined her in the bedroom he found her staring up at the ceiling.

"I'm not sure how I feel about this," she confided, a little flushed. "Are we sure he hasn't set up a camera in here?"

"I trust Natasha, but I think I'll do a second sweep just in case." He glanced up at the mirror and back at her, suddenly feeling mischievous. "Feeling self-conscious?" he asked, taking a few slow steps toward her. "Between the two of us, you have the least to worry about."

Her startlement quickly turned into something more akin to a challenge. "I think you need to perform your sweep," she said pertly, turning away with a swing of her hips and a flirting gaze over her shoulder, and he had to resist the urge to pull her toward him and revisit their rhumba lesson. If the rhumba led to something more horizontal, all the better.

She paused in the doorway, the seductive edge falling away. "Did you like that?" she asked with a grin. "I rather did."

"Jemma, you make me wish I were twenty years younger." A quip, in part, but there was a note of truth to it- odds were he would die well before her, and he only hoped that he wouldn't descend into a dementia that would last years on end.

It struck him that when this was all over he would do well to update his various estate planning documents, though obviously his DNR order hadn't done him a great deal of good the last time around. His will required a definite update; everything must go to Jemma and so on down the line,_per stirpes_, et cetera, et cetera. This was assuming that a dead man could even have a will in the first place, or that a dead woman could inherit.

Her gaze grew soft and thoughtful. "I love you quite the way you are," she said after a moment, and walked back toward him. "I don't see the point in worrying about how much time we might have. What a waste that would be." She wrapped her arms around him, leaning in close. "You're hardly ancient, and I would rather have thirty years with you than sixty with anyone else."

The only words he could find in reply were, "You are far too good for me."

"I disagree," she replied immediately. "You deserve so much more than you allow yourself." She kissed him lingeringly, and then pulled away to check a nearby clock. "Do your sweep," she said with a smile. "We have three hours until dinner, and I intend to make the best use of our time."

The apartment was clean, as Clint had promised, and Phil took Jemma at her word, collecting her from her seat on the sofa and carrying her back into the bedroom.

"You are turning into a level eight pack mule," she sighed in an exaggerated fashion, looking to be hiding a smile. "Will you be carrying me in to dinner as well?"

"Clint and Tony would never let me live it down," he said honestly. "Now," he said with a small, sly smile, "please direct your attention to the ceiling, Dr. Simmons."

She blinked, looking confused by the abrupt change of conversation, before glancing up. She blushed rose, and he knew from experience exactly how far that blush descended. "Yes?"

"I'd like your hypothesis."

She glanced back at him. "Is this one of your level eight sexual practicums?" she asked with an almost straight face, and he refrained from grinning in return. "I'm assuming my variables are the mirror and ourselves."

"Very astute." He slid his hands under her blouse and let them rest on her sides, his fingertips brushing the outward swell of her breasts. "Your hypothesis, Dr. Simmons?"

"Well," she said slowly, her gaze drifting back upwards. "I suppose-"

She stopped with a gasp when he pulled off her blouse in one neat motion, undoing the clasp of her bra in seconds. "What was that, Dr. Simmons?"

"Oh, God," she whispered, tipping her head back as he stroked her breasts lightly. She really was much more sensitive than she had been, and he intended to use it to his advantage.

He smiled against her skin. "Even I know that isn't a proper hypothesis. Try again."

* * *

His fingers stroked her shoulder, breaking her from her doze. "It's six-thirty," he informed her. "We're expected at dinner in a half an hour."

She took a moment to process the information. Dinner. Half an hour. No, no, it was impossible.

"Sleep," she murmured, reaching out and twining her arms around him. "You can cook later, you wretched, wonderful man."

"Clint and Natasha will just break in if we don't show up."

"I will wave at them," she muttered, snuggling against his chest. At some point during her nap- her too short nap- he had showered and dressed, and he certainly seemed wide-eyed and awake now, though she thought she had worn him out at least as much as he had her.

"And then Clint will take pictures and post them online," he replied, and she could tell he was on the verge of laughing.

"Too great a security risk," she protested.

"Not on the secret Avengers' forum."

She rolled away from him with what she hoped was an impressive glare. "I don't believe you."

She did, actually.

"I'll get you an invitation," he said, pulling her by the hand out of bed. "You'll like it. Banner tries to keep the peace, Steve keeps a log on his latest foray into modern literature, and the others do their best to stir things up."

"Hmm." She brushed out her hair as she considered the idea, then frowned when she realized what he was wearing. "A suit?"

"They hardly know what to do with me when I'm not in a suit. Apparently Tony ransacked my closet at the same time he stole Lola." He shook his head. "How he got away with it, I have no idea, but it took me an entire evening to dig the various tracking devices out of all the seams." He caught her anxious look. "It's not formal, Jem. It's just- armor."

That wasn't very reassuring, not when she was down to walmart jeans and looked like she had just spent an hour with half a dozen sailors on shore leave. Even after a quick shower and blowing her hair dry, she still looked rather ruffled, and there was a distinctive bruise on her neck that her hair barely covered.

Not that it hadn't been worth it, she acknowledged with a smirk as she tried to pick out an outfit that would at least look semi-respectable next to his suit.

"It's amazing how much of your beautiful wardrobe is now scattered across South America," Natasha suddenly said with a sigh from behind her.

Jemma gave the plain bra and underwear she was wearing a rueful glance, but didn't bother trying to cover herself. "You kitted me out marvelously," she admitted. "And now I'm back to square one. Which do you think is the least offensive ensemble?"

Natasha surveyed her choices and curled the edge of her lip in a delicate sneer. "They are all terrible."

"I'm not arguing with you."

Natasha shook her head. "Phil," she called, "you cannot wear a suit when Jemma looks like a college student on a walk of shame. Sorry," she added, turning back to Jemma.

"You have the right of it." With a sigh, Jemma pulled on a sweater and the least baggy pair of jeans. "I won't be able to fit into anything, soon enough."

Natasha- who was wearing jeans herself, but whose slim-cut dark denim was worlds away from Jemma's sartorial travesty, shook her head when she saw the final product. "No, that is unacceptable. Come on."

Jemma didn't resist when Natasha towed her out of the room to the front door. Natasha paused and gave Phil a stern look. "Phil, we're going to need your credit card tomorrow."

"No, we won't," Jemma said automatically, shaking her head.

"Oh, yes we will. We also need to talk with Fury about back pay and reparations," Natasha continued, tugging her out the door. "I don't know what SHIELD policy is in this kind of situation, but my opinion is that you should make them pay through the nose."

"That I do agree with." Jemma nodded at Clint as they passed him. "We're not the same size, Tasha."

"Close enough," Natasha replied with a shrug, rifling through her closet. "I saw Pepper not ten minutes ago. She was still wearing her work clothes: Prada and Louboutins elegant enough to pierce your soul. It would be a crime on my part to let you go up against that unprepared."

She pulled out a pair of jeans and a cashmere sweater and thrust them at Jemma. "Try these."

They fit well enough, and it was a distinct improvement on Jemma's first outfit, though there was one problem. "Do you have a camisole?" she asked Natasha with a blush, gesturing awkwardly at the neckline. "I've… filled out. A bit."

Natasha studied her décolletage with a professional air. "No, I think it looks fine. Excellent, actually. You should keep that."

"Are you sure?" Jemma asked, studying herself in a nearby mirror. It was true that her sweater was no more low-cut than Natasha's own, and she had worn similar necklines in the past, but her breasts had been somewhat smaller at the time.

"Positive." Suddenly Natasha was beside her with a small container of concealer, pushing her hair aside. "Hold still while I make this disappear." She stepped back after a moment, considered Jemma, and frowned. "You're right," she said unexpectedly, and pulled a camisole out of a drawer. "If we were having dinner with anyone other than Tony, I wouldn't do this, but I won't subject you to his ogling."

"You are an excellent friend," Jemma replied devotedly, fleeing back into the bathroom.

She still looked too casual next to Phil's suit, and in an odd way it was almost as if they had both just wandered off the Bus in the garb that had been typical of them at the time- excepting, of course, the fact that he had his arm around her waist.

"Nervous?" he asked her quietly, and she nodded. "Don't be," he said, pulling her a little closer. "You're among friends."

* * *

Phil refrained from stroking the curve of her waist, but still found himself rubbing his thumb softly against the material of her sweater. He had forgotten how soft cashmere could be, especially against a woman's curves. Jemma's wardrobe was lacking, it was true, and only his relief had made him forget that fact on the road. He was unsure if her reluctance to shop with Natasha was based solely on her remembrance of that day in Manaus- in all honesty, Phil would never want to be in a position where Natasha had the power to drag him from shop to shop- or if she was suddenly considering the financial aspect of such an endeavor.

They had never discussed finances, he realized. As fugitives it had never been an issue, thankfully- there were few things worse than lying low in a foreign country and trying to scrape by on dollars a day- and they had had other things on their minds, since being reunited. For him the issue was simple: his money, as well as everything else that belonged to him, was now hers, whether or not she wished to claim it. He could see how the matter might not be quite so simple for Jemma, particularly as she technically did not have a cent to her name. Phil's accounts had merely been frozen, during their time away, but as Fury had legitimately believed Jemma to be dead, her assets and personal effects had been distributed to her parents long ago.

That would be another issue to deal with, after the world was returned to some semblance of normality. At some point Jemma's parents would have to be told the truth, or at least some gentle version of the truth. Phil doubted that Jemma would want to leave them in the dark forever.

"No," Tony said the moment they walked into the room, shaking his head. "Agent, she's much too pretty for you."

"I don't know," Clint replied thoughtfully, his expression almost soulfully earnest. "Has anyone ever thought that Phil might be too pretty for her?"

Phil met Jemma's gaze, her expression more perturbed than amused. "I think you're very handsome," she murmured in Limean, and he gave her a small smile.

"Tony's just an ass, dear."

Jemma held his gaze for a moment longer before looking back at Tony, her expression suddenly so sweet that it could only be a warning of imminent danger. Across the room Phil saw Bruce take a small step back, his lips pressed together as if hiding a smile.

Clint was snickering, not even bothering to hide his amusement.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stark," Jemma said, stepping forward and extending her hand. "Thank you for your hospitality."

"The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Agent," he replied smoothly, and there was a moment when it looked as if he would kiss her hand. His eyes widened slightly at the last second, and he hastily released her and stepped back. Phil cut a glance at Natasha, who was smirking. Apparently Jemma had hit a nerve, quite literally.

Tony was regarding Jemma with a more serious expression now, as if he had misread her at first glance and was being forced to rapidly re-evaluate his initial impressions. Phil could feel his own smirk forming, and allowed it. Everyone underestimated Jemma, and it was such a treat to see Tony Stark fall into the same trap.

"I like you," Tony said finally, pointing a decisive finger in her direction. "Would you like a job? I would pay you an obscene amount of money to head up the chem department. You would be my science queen."

"No, thank you," she replied, accepting a glass of water from Natasha with a grateful nod. "I'm not looking for anything based in New York."

She walked purposefully away toward Bruce, tailed by a still talking Tony, and Pepper sidled up next to Phil.

"She played that magnificently," she said with a smile. "If she ever does want a job, she's got one."

"We're not staying in New York, after," Phil said, smiling softly as he watched Jemma and Banner meet face to face for the first time. "We're going home."

Pepper nodded. "I thought so. But we can make it work, if she's interested."

Between Pepper's words and Tony's behavior, Phil was fairly certain that Jemma would end up with her very own lab in Lima, after all. "I think she would be agreeable, with the right terms- but she gets the final say, of course."

Pepper turned her discerning eye on him. "We could use a consultant with your skills, Phil." She took a sip of her wine and smiled. "Another job that wouldn't need to be on site. Part time, if you like."

"Possibly."

"Congratulations, by the way." She lifted her glass in a solitary toast. "You are going to be an excellent father."

He met her gaze squarely. "I'm terrified."

She barely blinked an eye. "Shit, Phil, I would be too."

They both considered each other for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

Tony's frustration when they refused to tell him why only made it better.


	24. Hyacinthus orientalis

_Like the hyacinth in the mountains that shepherd men_  
_with their feet trample down and on the ground the purple_  
_flower_  
-Sappho (Carson)

Skye, who had been noticeably absent from dinner the night before (along with Thor and Fitz, though presumably they had not all been together), appeared at their door the next morning.

"So, I have always wanted to be someone's cool aunt," she said straight off, offering Phil a high five as she walked past him, which he accepted with a somewhat resigned expression. "I think I would be really good at it."

"What exactly does that entail?" Jemma asked, frowning slightly as she broke a cracker in half.

"You know, shopping, ice cream for breakfast, fake-"

Skye stopped speaking abruptly when Phil shot her an unamused look. "No fake IDs, Skye."

"Of course not!" she replied with a slightly nervous laugh. "I meant, of course, fake… err…"

"_No_." He hovered near the door, looking as if he were reconsidering his decision to go to SHIELD HQ for the day. "Either reconsider your ideas of 'cool' or resign yourself to being boring Aunt Skye."

Skye narrowed her eyes at him. "You're going to call me that in front of the kid, aren't you? 'Boring Aunt Skye' this and 'Boring Aunt Skye' that."

"I'm seriously considering it."

"Jemma," Skye protested, turning toward her. "You wouldn't do that to me, would you?"

"Perhaps 'stodgy aunt Skye'," Jemma mused in reply. "Or staid. Would you prefer staid?"

Skye gave them both a stormy glance. "The two of you together are a menace."

"I think that's a compliment," Jemma said with a smile. "Don't you think so, Phil?"

"Considering the source, yes." He turned away at another knock on the door, letting in Natasha, who flashed Jemma a wicked smile.

"No," Jemma said flatly, immediately knowing what was in store.

"Yes," Natasha replied, accepting the credit card Phil handed her. "Have you eaten anything other than crackers? You need your strength for the day ahead."

Jemma could think of few things worse than a day of shopping with both Natasha and Skye, who would inevitably have differing opinions that probably wouldn't lead to bloodshed, but would most likely lead to what might charitably be called 'a small debate'. Added to that was the fact that her own tidy nest egg no longer existed, and she didn't have a clue about Phil's own bank accounts. She had no doubt that he was perfectly happy to spend the money on her- judging by his suits, he was no stranger to a hefty price tag- and her hesitation had little to do with any perceived power imbalance. Jemma knew very well that she was not just a bedmate and a convenient womb to him. If anything, he had placed a larger percentage of the power in _her_ hands.

No, her reluctance stemmed from more practical concerns. She didn't like not knowing the state of their finances; it made her nervous to consider spending money when she didn't even know what money there was to spend. They had a future to consider, as well- living expenses, medical bills related to the pregnancy and delivery (something Jemma didn't like thinking about, though her fears had little to do with the actual labor and everything to do with the medical staff attending the labor), college funds, retirement funds. Phil's pension might still be intact, but hers had been liquidated. How much had their life in Lima even cost? Natasha had always been so close-mouthed over their finances that Jemma couldn't swear to the fact that they had been renting the property. For all she knew, Natasha had bought the land outright.

Really, the entire line of thought was exhausting, and she felt like going back to bed.

Phil was eyeing her with concern, a concern that Natasha apparently shared. "We'll wait outside," she said, grabbing Skye's arm and pulling her out the door.

"Is it Natasha or is it the money?" he asked after the door closed, sitting next to her on the couch.

"Both," she replied honestly. "You should take that card from her, Phil. The woman has champagne tastes and no financial scruples."

"Good," he replied simply, putting his arm around her shoulders. "You deserve the best. I meant to go over everything with you last night, but you fell asleep."

She had, and at an embarrassingly early hour. Dealing with Tony Stark was no easy matter. "I'm going to be in maternity wear soon enough, and there is no guarantee that I'll ever be this size again after the pregnancy."

"True," he agreed, "but I want you to be comfortable, and I don't think you are at the moment." He shrugged uncomfortably. "It was insensitive of me to wear a suit and call it armor, last night. I don't have an excuse for that."

She rested her head on his arm and considered him. "You really want me to go with them."

"I do." He shook his head slightly. "Jemma, we're well off. My only major expenditures before Lima were suits, Lola's upkeep, and Captain America trading cards, and even though our respective back pay is currently tied up in red tape hell, we will both be receiving hefty compensation from SHIELD. I promise you, we can afford to keep you in cashmere _and_ raise a baby."

"Cashmere?"

"I'm a weak man, Jemma. Please buy some cashmere."

She laughed, blushing slightly. "Perhaps some lace and silk as well?"

"I'm a very weak man." The strength of his arm behind her and his smoldering look rather belied that statement. She made a mental note to buy all three. Whatever the outcome, she would obviously be the winner.

"Very well," she said finally with a small smile. "Give me a kiss and go to work. Knowing Natasha and Skye, I will probably be asleep when you get home."

"Make sure you hydrate," he said as he pulled her closer. "If they refuse to give you a break, throw up on one of them."

"Oh, I like that advice," she said brightly, and then raised a brow when he kissed her nose. "Is that all I get?"

"You should have been more specific about the location of the kiss," he replied, pulling back as if he meant to stand up. "Opportunity is not a lengthy visitor."

Jemma had never given thought to what other uses a tie might have, but at the present moment the one he wore certainly gave her a nice bit of leverage. Judging by his startled, quiet gasp he hadn't expected her to pull him back with it, but seeing as he pressed her back against the cushions the moment their lips met she was fairly sure she hadn't strangled him.

"Wake me up when you get home," she murmured as he straightened his tie. "Please."

"Not sure I could resist," he admitted, taking her hand and kissing her palm. "Don't let them bully you."

He opened the door, and from his body language Jemma guessed that he was giving Natasha and Skye his best glare. "If she says she's thirsty, get her some water. If she's hungry, feed her whatever she wants, and above all, if she's tired, bring her home immediately."

"Your tie looks kind of crumpled, AC," was Skye's reply. "You might want to fix that."

Natasha was smiling when Phil finally left, and Skye nodded. "Sexy and masterful," she said with a smirk. "No wonder you look so smug."

"I do not," Jemma said, slightly aghast.

"Yes, you do," Natasha said. "Have you eaten an actual breakfast? Where are your shoes?"

Jemma suppressed the automatic groan. It was going to be a very long day.

* * *

It was a terrible day, and Phil had experienced more than his share of terrible days during his time at SHIELD. The power was out in Belarus- all of it, every smidge of electricity- and before the day was out the same could be said of Austria. This was obviously the next stage of Loki's bizarre plan, and the idea of multiple countries possibly rioting in the streets in the near future would be giving everyone sleepless nights.

Natasha looked up from her Starkpad when he entered the apartment, tipping her head toward Jemma asleep on the couch. She stood and made her way silently toward him.

"Jemma fought valiantly," she whispered with a small smile, proffering his credit card, "but I'm afraid it was two against one. Cashmere, Phil?"

"She'll be warmer in cashmere," he replied blandly.

"You just want to stroke her like a kitten." Natasha shrugged. "Which I am sure you will both enjoy very much. So," she continued with a frown, "the power."

He glanced around the dimly lit room. He suspected that America, or at least parts of it, would be falling under the same spell of darkness soon enough. Their apartment was well stocked with flashlights, batteries, and candles (and he suspected the same held true for nearly every other room in this building), but New York City was not the friendliest place to be during a long-term power outage, especially during the winter. With the power would go the water, the internet, the heat. Food would spoil, passengers in the subway would find themselves stuck deep within the dark tunnels, and the hospitals would be hard-pressed to attend to their current patients, let alone the ones that would begin to flood in as the crisis continued.

If they were very unlucky- and it wouldn't need to be anywhere near New York, it could be anywhere in the world- a nuclear power plant somewhere would be sufficiently behind code that a meltdown would occur.

If Loki wanted a planet to rule, he was going about it in a very disastrous way.

"I hope Tony stocked up on bottled water," he muttered, and she smiled faintly.

"I don't know about Tony, but I know that Pepper has more than adequately stocked the building with emergency supplies." She looked toward the windows, where the lights of the city still gleamed in the darkness. "We're not the ones to worry about."

She left at that, and he turned his attention toward fixing dinner. It was just a simple stir fry, nothing too distracting- the state of the world was distracting enough- and so he heard the slight sounds when Jemma got up and made her way toward him.

"Belarus?" she asked, stopping on the other side of the kitchen island, and he turned off the burner under the pan.

"Dark," he confirmed. "Austria, too."

She leaned against the counter, her chin in her hands. "Is there anything we can do?"

"Other than the power outages, there is no sign of him," he said with a shake of his head. "They'll be able to restore the power eventually, but he hit all the critical facilities- it will take Belarus longer to repair that kind of damage. The local SHIELD headquarters for both countries will be helping, but-"

He shrugged. "It's amazing how little work we get done in the modern age without power and internet. It cripples us."

She came to the other side of the island and wrapped him in her arms. He stooped a bit to rest his head against her shoulder, rubbing his cheek against her sweater. She was wearing Natasha's cashmere again, but little of Natasha's perfume lingered in the weave. It was just Jemma he smelled, warm and sweet.

"We're going to win," she whispered, stroking her hand against his hair. "I refuse to lose."

After a few moments she pulled away and began unknotting his tie. "You haven't eaten anything since breakfast, have you?"

"Not exactly," he hedged as her nimble fingers drew the tie away from his collar and began smoothing the silk.

"Just coffee, then?"

"Pretty much," he admitted.

She gave him a teasing pout. "Fair's fair, Phil. Everyone eats nutritiously in this family."

"I'll do better," he promised, brushing a hand against her cheek, and turned to finish their dinner.

Jemma considered the plate in front of her speculatively once she had been served, then left the table to rummage through the fridge. After a moment she pulled back, a small jar of fig jam in her hand.

"And so it begins," she said with a smile, dropping several spoonfuls of jam onto her chicken and vegetables.

"It's not the strangest combination I can think of."

She shrugged. "I'm just warming up."

Jemma settled back onto the couch with him after dinner, her legs slung over his lap. "Phil," she said hesitantly. "Is Fitz avoiding me?"

He wouldn't be surprised if the younger man was; he certainly went out of his way to avoid Phil himself. "Like the rest of us, he took your abduction very hard," he answered diplomatically, and she speared him with a sharp glance.

"He was at the Guest House, wasn't he?"

"Yes," he admitted, touching her stomach lightly. "He heard that piece of news, as well."

She sighed and ran her hand over her face. "I thought- I thought we were past that."

"I think he was just worried about you," he replied soothingly, and shifted down the couch so that her feet rested in his lap. He pulled off her socks- his socks, actually, not that he begrudged her the use- and began massaging the arch of her left foot. "As a Hufflepuff, he probably finds your bravery rather disconcerting."

She giggled at that. "Hufflepuff? You think Fitz is a Hufflepuff?"

"He is a natural Hufflepuff," he replied with affronted dignity and tickled the bottom of one foot, hiding a smile when she squeaked. "A badger if I ever saw one."

She was beginning to relax again, which was exactly what he had been aiming for. "Well, then, go on," she said with a smile. "What about May?"

He wasn't sure what it said about him that he had already considered this question. "Gryffindor," he replied firmly. "Brave and loyal to a fault. And Skye is a Ravenclaw." He shook his head at her laugh. "It's a gut feeling, Jemma. The girl was born to wear blue and bronze."

"And Ward?" She was smiling now, for real, and it was a lovely sight.

"Durmstrang."

"_Brilliant_." She poked his side gently with her free foot. "And you?"

"Oh, I'm a squib." He raised his voice to continue over her immediate denial. "No, Jemma, there is no place for me in those hallowed halls."

"Nonsense," she huffed, and pulled her foot out of his hands so that she could straddle his lap. "I think you might be a Hufflepuff," she said thoughtfully, twining her arms around his neck. "Gentle and considerate, and you do spend a great deal of time in the kitchen."

"I'm not sure what that has to do with anything."

"I always assumed their dorms were next to the kitchens for a reason," she replied with a shrug.

"And I always assumed they were growing pot in the greenhouse," he said dryly. "And I can think of a number of people who would disagree with me being called 'gentle'."

She smiled. "I'm guessing most of them were trying to shoot you, though." She kissed his forehead. "No matter. You're my Phil, and I am very lucky to have you."

"The luck is all mine, I think." He stroked her back, coaxing her closer to him. "Natasha and Skye didn't run you ragged, did they?"

"Ugh." She dropped her head to his shoulder. "There were things in those bags that I do not remember buying. Either they purchased them separately or they're going to be charged with shoplifting."

"Natasha Romanov does not shoplift," he said with a slight smile. "Natasha merely relieves stores of unnecessary stock."

"Oh, God."

"I'm joking," he said with a small laugh, pushing her back just enough to meet her eyes. "Since she's turned to the straight and narrow, she is scrupulous about paying all of her debts. No one stole anything."

She tsked under her breath, still looking fretful, and began to unbutton his shirt. "I just can't believe that the world is falling to pieces and we went _shopping_." She sniffed, and looked alarmed when tears began dripping down her cheeks. "Shit. It's hormones; I'm sorry."

She laughed a bit when he presented her with a handkerchief. "I missed that, too," she admitted, voice thick with tears. "You might want to carry a few extra with you for the foreseeable future."

He had never been the type of man to panic when a woman cried in front of him, and he wasn't panicking now. That didn't mean that he was comfortable watching Jemma cry, which he most certainly was not. "You could hardly know that the day would go as it did."

"I know." She smiled rather deprecatingly. "I cry at everything now. I wept all over a belly band this morning and I still have no idea why." She frowned, suddenly looking quite put out. "Skye took pictures."

A pity he could no longer take away Skye's internet privileges. "I'll talk to her about it." He swept his hands slowly down her sides, eyeing the amount of skin revealed by her neckline. She had been wearing some other layer with the same sweater the night before and had looked lovely, but if this was how she intended to wear it in private he was tempted to send Natasha a thank you card.

"You look a little distracted," she said teasingly, swiping at her cheeks with the handkerchief one last time. "Admittedly, even I find them a bit distracting. Everytime I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror it's as if I've forgotten."

It was one thing to read about the various changes in the female body during pregnancy, and another to observe them in person. "I've been distracted by your breasts for the past year, at least."

She laughed. "Just wait until I start breastfeeding. We'll see how distracting you'll find them once gravity and chafing start to play a part."

He stroked one finger along the neckline of her sweater slowly, smiling slightly as a light blush rose in her cheeks. "My fascination with them has more to do with the fact that they are attached to you. Give me some credit, Jemma." He hooked his index finger in the neckline and tugged it down, catching a glimpse of lace. "You really are much too good to me."

She batted his hand away playfully. "Maybe I just enjoy the look of awe on your face, as if Captain America had walked into the room and told you that you were his hero."

"He could be singing 'Wind Beneath My Wings' and it still wouldn't be as amazing as your smile." He was such a sap, and he didn't give a damn. Really, Jemma could wander around in the plainest of jeans and t-shirts and he would still be inspired by the sight.

"Oh." She did smile at that, and resumed unbuttoning his shirt. "I believe that statement alone makes you a level ten hopeless romantic."

"A character trait that I've been concealing for years." He slipped his hands underneath the hem of her sweater, stroking her lower back, the expanse of smooth skin interrupted at odd intervals by the ridge of a scar. "Speaking of romance, I was thinking that it might be nice to return to Lima by way of Manaus."

The way she lit up in response rocked him to the core. "Really?" She sat back on his lap, her hands clasped against her chest. "Could we go up the river to Iquitos, too?"

"Yes." Unless she were anywhere near her due date, in which case he would most likely be doing his best to convince her to stay within ten minutes of a hospital at all times. "I promise that I won't try and sleep on the floor, next time."

"I should hope not." She leaned forward and kissed him, her enthusiasm for the idea evident. "The gardens in Manaus were so lovely," she said, kissing her way along his jawline. "We're going to have to find that gazebo again."

The way she was wriggling on his lap was driving him crazy. "Are you premeditating a public display of affection?"

"Very public, and very affectionate," she promised, and suddenly was on her feet and walking toward the bedroom. "Come along," she said, looking back at him with a grin. "I'm plotting a much more private display of affection, now."

She was almost skipping with delight, and if he hadn't already been the president of the Jemma Simmons Fan Club the sight would have absolutely been his turning point. "Much too good to me," he reiterated, and nearly chased her out of the room.

* * *

It was obvious that this time around, Jemma would have to seek out Fitz. Natasha came with her, not bothering to conceal that she was essentially on bodyguard duty for the moment.

"Do you really think Loki's going to try and take me from the middle of Stark building?" Jemma asked her quietly, and Natasha tilted her head slightly.

"Maybe. Maybe not. It's better to be overly cautious in this case." She smiled slightly. "I could get Clint, if you would prefer to have him as your bad-joke buffer."

"No, I think not." She was nervous enough already. The south of France had gone dark before dawn had broken over the New York City skyline, and the Black Forest region in Germany not long after. As jittery as Jemma felt, she was likely to get into a slap fight with Clint under the right provocation.

"You didn't do anything wrong," Natasha reminded her calmly. "Unspoken understandings are not legally binding. I don't think they're fair to either party, really. Nine times out of ten they just linger on unsatisfied."

"I know I didn't do anything wrong," Jemma replied. "There's just all this… emotional detritus left behind. I thought it was settled, and now it's not, and-"

She slowed her steps as they turned onto an empty corridor. "I don't want to hurt him, Tasha."

"You were away from him for nearly two years, during which you fell in love with an exceptional man. You're not the same person you were." Natasha gazed at her solemnly. "You can't stop him from being hurt. At this point, he's the only one who can do that."

They stopped outside the door to Fitz's lab, and Jemma resisted the urge to bite her thumbnail. "I just want to be friends with him again."

"You can't force someone to be your friend." Natasha paused. "Unless you're Clint, in which case you lull them into a sense of complacency and then attack them with friendship."

"Perhaps I should adopt some of his methods."

They lingered for another few minutes, and finally Natasha checked her watch. "Do you want to get lunch and try again this afternoon?"

"No," Jemma scoffed, reaching out for the door handle even as she thought, _yes, yes, let's do that_.

Fitz was one of four engineers working in that particular lab. They all glanced up at their entrance, and with the exception of Fitz, all eyes were focused on Natasha before looking conspicuously away.

Fitz didn't wait for Jemma to say anything; he automatically put down the gears in his hands and followed them out into the hall. "What is it, Simmons?" He paused. "Jemma, I mean."

Jemma glanced around the otherwise empty hall, then gave Natasha a questioning look. Natasha wandered a few steps away and opened the door opposite the lab. "Look, a convenient janitors' closet," she said mildly, holding the door open. "If you aren't out in ten minutes I will break the door down."

Even the janitors' closets in the Stark building were oversized; Jemma had lived in smaller flats. Fitz looked disgruntled.

"Does she think I'm going to maul you?" he asked, crossing his arms and leaning back against the shelves. "I'd never do that, Jem. You know that."

"She's not worried about you," Jemma replied with a shake of her head. "Just about certain teleporting individuals."

"Ahh." A little of his irritation faded away. "You're good, then? I heard that you were staying on one of the secured floors. You always did know how to land soft."

Now she was the irritated one, but she forced herself to ignore his comment. "I'm fine. I just wanted to see you." She tilted her head slightly, considering him. "You haven't been around."

"Just busy." He shrugged, not meeting her eyes. "I've got a project to finish, Jem. Can we do this later?"

She had the distinct feeling that if they didn't have this discussion now, they might never. "I don't want you to avoid me, Fitz."

"I'm not avoiding you. We're both busy, Jemma- I've got my work and you've got-"

He waved his hand in the general direction of her abdomen. "You've got that to work on."

She immediately felt defensive. She wasn't just sitting around nesting-

Then again, maybe she was. She didn't exactly have a role at the moment, other than tying up Natasha's time and distracting Phil when he returned from SHIELD headquarters in the evening. Tony would be perfectly happy to lend her a lab, but whatever research she might do would be constrained by even more safety measures than usual, now that she knew she was pregnant. There were chemicals she shouldn't even be in the same room as, now, no matter how carefully they were handled. She supposed that she could go to SHIELD HQ and do- do _something_, but the mere idea of stepping foot through those doors made her feel short of breath and a bit dizzy.

"It's just been a weird few years, you know?" he said, turning to scan the shelves lining the walls. "I let you drag me out of our safe little lab so that we can nearly die a half-dozen times, and then you disappear, and the next thing I know I have your medical file in front of me and I am terrified for you." He turned back to her, his hands in his pockets and a disconcertingly blank expression on his face. "Then, of course, we catch up to you and you've made the best out of bad circumstances, as usual, _and then_ you disappear and terrify me all over again, _and then_ I find out that my mum died thinking I was a traitor," he said unexpectedly, and she sagged back against the wall. "Breast cancer. So I'm having a bit of a time, as you might imagine."

"I'm sorry," she whispered after a moment.

"Me, too."

She was the one avoiding his eyes, now, and she felt more than saw him walk back past her to the door. "Like I said, I have work to finish," he said, and the door shut quietly behind him.

She wasn't alone for long, or at least she didn't think it was very long before the door opened again and Natasha appeared in front of her.

"Shit," the other woman said, and thrust a handkerchief into Jemma's hand. "Phil made me start carrying them," she said without being asked. "What did he say to you?"

Jemma shook her head, the handkerchief pressed to her eyes. "His mother died. Leave him alone."

"That doesn't mean he gets to take it out on you," Natasha retorted, and took Jemma's arm with more gentleness than her tone would have indicated. "I think you need a snack."

"I'm not five," Jemma grumbled, resisting a bit as Natasha tugged her onward.

"Well, I can hardly offer you a drink, can I?"

They were in the elevator before Natasha spoke again. "What else did he say?"

"Not much."

He hadn't come right out and _said_ that she was just sitting around, after all.

"Then what did he imply?"

Natasha was too perceptive for comfort, at times. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Hmmph."

* * *

In general, it was never a good sign when Natasha showed up unexpectedly, especially when her expression was that of someone preparing to ride a warhorse into battle.

"Natasha, parts of Alaska no longer have power. This really isn't a good time," Phil said wearily.

"It's not like you have any idea what to do about it, other than stand around a map and go, 'Ooh, that's bad'," she sniped back irreverently. "The little Scottish bastard made Jemma cry."

While that did piss Phil off, he still wasn't entirely sure it was worth Natasha tracking him down at work. "Hell, Nat, _I_ made Jemma cry last night."

She paused long enough to give him a dryly amused look. "Your jokes are pretty bad."

"Says the woman who puts up with Clint."

She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. "Fine," she said, nodding slightly. "I'm probably overreacting, but I don't think that she was crying _just_ because he told her his mother had died. It's easiest to hurt the ones we love, you know that."

Phil had thought that if Fitz took out his irritation on anyone, it would be him. Fitz lashing out at Jemma had, in his mind, not been the most obvious of scenarios- not that either he or Natasha knew exactly what had happened. "Is she with Clint, right now?"

"Yes." She shrugged. "I'll go." Her smile was brittle. "I suppose I just needed the walk."

"We're fifty blocks from Stark Tower," he replied in a mild tone, and she nodded.

"I know."

He didn't return to the war room, but to his tiny, temporary office, where he sat and stared at the blank walls for a few long minutes. They couldn't leave town now, not with Loki running about, leaving parts of the world dark as if he were a mischievous child loosening random light bulbs in a house. In the scheme of things Jemma and Fitz's fractured relationship was a minor problem, at best, but he knew to her it would be no small thing.

Finally he stood and gathered his things. Natasha had been right, in a sense- everyone who could help with Alaska was already on site or was en route. If Fury needed him, he could pick up the damn landline.

The city was quiet, these days, as everyone readied themselves for the worst, either consciously or unconsciously. Everyone walked a bit more quickly, were less likely to chat with friends on street corners. The reports coming in showed that the local stores were already running low on basic supplies, despite rapid restocking. On certain streets, New York looked eerily like a ghost town.

Their apartment was empty- in fact, the entire floor was empty, as best he could tell.

"Jarvis, where is Jemma?"

"In Dr. Banner's laboratory," the AI replied, as calmly as ever. "I'm afraid there had been a small fire."

Of _course_ there had been a small fire. Fucking Avengers.

"How small, Jarvis?"

"Miniscule, Agent Coulson. Sir informs me that it barely existed at all."

Stark would probably say that about a forest fire. "Was anyone hurt?"

"No, Agent Coulson."

It was a small consolation, though it helped that when he finally made it to Banner's lab everyone appeared unhurt. Jemma and Bruce were laughing as Stark sulked in a corner, and as far as Phil was concerned that was exactly as things should be.

"Agent, your wife tried to set me on fire," Stark informed him.

"I did not," Jemma retorted quickly. "Didn't your mother ever teach you to watch where you're going? _Especially_ in a lab."

"She's right," Bruce said. "No walking backwards in a lab, Tony. I don't care how cool you think it makes you look."

Phil turned his attention back to Jemma, scanning her for singe marks. "Were you, at any point, on fire?"

"Oh, no," she replied cheerfully, but that cheer was underlaid by a sadness so deep it was almost a bruise. "Just Tony."

"Then I don't care," he said with a small tilt of his head, aiming for a demeanor that was calm and comforting and just a little bit insulting to Tony- which was how Phil generally was around Stark, so he was essentially aiming for normal.

Even Stark seemed to be reading the room at this point, because his returning jibe was nowhere near as insulting as it might normally have been.

"Have you eaten lunch, yet?" Phil asked Jemma, ignoring Tony, and she shook her head in reply. "Good, neither have I."

She stood and slid her arm into the crook of his elbow, giving him a small smile. "I might take a nap after lunch," she said quietly as they walked down the hall. "It's been a long morning."

"Maybe I'll take one with you."

She ducked her head at his words, her hand tightening on his arm. "I shouldn't distract you from work."

"There's very little for me to do, at work." He rested his head lightly against hers as they waited for the elevator. "I'd like to spend the afternoon with you."

She finally met his gaze after the elevator doors closed. "Did Natasha come looking for you?"

"Yes."

"She shouldn't have done that."

"She frequently does things that she shouldn't do." She was looking away again, and they both kept quiet after that until their apartment door was closed behind them.

She broke the silence then, taking a seat on a stool next to one of the kitchen counters. "I spoke with Fitz."

He nodded encouragingly as he pulled out the ingredients for a fritatta. "Natasha told me," he admitted.

"Of course she did." Jemma sighed. "His mother died, while they were away. They were very close."

"What else did he say?" he asked after a few minutes had slipped by. That news alone hadn't driven her into this kind of mood; Fitz had obviously struck out, as Natasha had warned him, and whatever he had said had hit Jemma hard.

She shook her head. "Would SHIELD have told his parents that he was a traitor?" she asked quietly. "He seems to think that they did."

He paused to consider her words, placing the knife he had been chopping vegetables with carefully to the side. "They wouldn't have phrased it like that- but they likely would have questioned his parents, in case they had sheltered him, and his parents would have inevitably drawn their own conclusions."

"He never wanted to leave our lab at sci-ops." She was twisting her rings around her finger, almost violently. "I convinced him to."

"Did you hold a gun to his head?"

She looked up, startled. "Of course not."

"Then it isn't your fault." He sat on the stool next to hers, placing a hand on her knee. "What happened is regrettable, but he's a grown man who makes his own choices, and he could have turned back at any moment." It was not quite so simple a situation as he made it out to be- Fitz would have followed Jemma nearly anywhere, in Phil's opinion- but that had been Fitz's choice, and Jemma didn't deserve to carry the weight of those decisions. He lowered his voice, leaning toward her. "What else did he say?"

"He didn't say it." She hesitated. "It's just- I've become rather a lady of leisure, haven't I?"

"We've only been back a few days," he replied, trying to keep his voice level. "And one might say that you have a price on your head, so to speak."

"I know." She placed a hand atop his. "I'm just not used to sitting around. I'm not sure what I can contribute, right now."

He remembered, suddenly, her words in Lima so many months ago- _I don't want to be a burden_. She was the furthest thing from a burden, of course, but Jemma would never be happy to just putter around this apartment with little to do. Even in Lima their days had been busy- there had been her garden and their collective training, and she had voraciously read every scientific journal she could get her hands on.

"Then we'll find something for you do to." Something safe- safeish, he mentally amended. No wrapping her in cotton wool. "Talk to Bruce. He would probably love to work with you, especially if you continue to set Tony on fire."

She smiled a bit at that. "He has his own research interests," she demurred. "Clint dragged me in there today, but I shouldn't push in."

"Banner is a full-fledged Jemma Simmons fanboy," he replied dryly. He was willing to stake his life on it. "I think if you ask, he would be more than happy to science with you."

"Science isn't a verb," she replied, but leaned closer to him all the same.

"It is when your knowledge of science is, at best, undergraduate level chemistry and biology." He stood, placing his hands gently on the sides of her face. "I'm starving. You?"

"Yes." She smiled again, and if the bruised look wasn't entirely gone, it had, at least, abated somewhat. "And I do want that nap."

An hour later, when he was spooned up behind her under a down comforter, he was glad of it, too.

* * *

_Notes: _

_Into the Woods is one of my favorite musicals, and I am always looking for a way to stick the line "Specify! Opportunity is not a length visitor" into everyday conversation._

_I generally try not to sing it when I do._


	25. Citrus x sinensis

_She herself was thinking of the way she had once planned to be married- away back in her early teens when such a thing had not seemed impossible. White silk and tulle veil and orange-blossoms; no bridesmaid._  
-_The Blue Castle_, Lucy Maud Montgomery

It wasn't often that Jemma woke before Phil, but as she surfaced from her nap she could tell that he still slept, judging by the sound of his breathing and how lax his arm was around her waist. He didn't relax nearly enough, and so she kept herself still and loose against him.

She was still processing- obsessing over, really- her encounter with Fitz earlier in the day. She had known his mum, had been close with her, even. Granted, it had been obvious that Fitz's mum had expected the two of them to make a match of it, and Jemma wondered what, exactly, Fitz had told her when Jemma disappeared the first time, and what had gone through the poor woman's mind when SHIELD turned up at their door, full of prying questions about where Fitz might be and how he had sounded when last they spoke.

No one could accuse Leopold Fitz of not thinking through his own decisions, but she ached in the wake of his words, as the guilt began to build into an almost physical burden. Jemma had known that he would follow her to the Bus, that the pull would be too strong for him to resist. She hadn't thought much of it, at the time, thinking only that she would finally get the field experience she had been longing for. A little adventure was all Jemma had wanted, and the more fool her, she had thought that Fitz would enjoy it, too.

She held as still as possible and kept her weeping quiet, allowing her tears to dampen the sheets unimpeded. They had been in each others' pockets for so long that she no longer had any shields when it came to Fitz, and each word he had aimed her way had struck true and deep.

Phil muttered something unintelligible in his sleep, tightening his grip on her and pressing his face against her shoulder. It should have been comforting, but instead she found herself practically sobbing into her pillow, driven on by a hormonal surge that was akin to a tidal wave.

She wouldn't trade Phil for Fitz. That was a certainty, and she acknowledged that in many ways she had lost Fitz long ago. He was no longer that beloved, exasperating man who had finished her sentences more often that not as they walked blithely through their safe, sterile little world. She had forgotten what it was like to have interests separate from Fitz, to work on research that had nothing to do with his research. There had been a kind of comfort in working with him, in knowing almost exactly how he would respond to a given situation or what suggestion he might make if they were stuck on a problem, but she couldn't deny that the brief amount of time she had spent speaking with Bruce and even Tony had been exhilarating. The clash of differing opinions, the unusual angles they attacked problems from- it sparked her imagination and intellectual appetite.

That wasn't stopping her body from reacting as if her own mother had died. She was so tired of crying over everything and nothing. The day before she had literally cried over spilled milk, and at the time had thought that would be the low point of her week.

She missed the moment when Phil woke, but she felt when he clasped a hand over hers. Wisely, he refrained from offering platitudes, and instead just tucked himself more securely around her as she shuddered with the force of her sobs.

Finally her tears waned, and she said more shakily than she liked, "I should be stronger than this."

"At the risk of sounding like an after-school special, don't judge yourself by societal expectations." He ran his thumb over the knuckles of the hand he held. "We can't all be Melinda May."

She found herself giggling at that, but it was a very teary kind of giggle. "I knew pregnancy would make me emotional, but this is just ridiculous."

"He was very important to you, and for a long time," he said softly. "He still is, I think, and that's perfectly understandable."

She wriggled in his grasp until she faced him. He was gazing at her with a gentle and open expression, though he frowned slightly when he saw the reddened skin around her eyes. "You're more important," she told him firmly, placing a hand over his heart. "I wouldn't trade you for anyone."

"I know." Such a simple answer, but the confident way he said it was worlds away from the tinge of flattering, if frustrating, disbelief that had occasionally been present in his voice in the early days. "I trust you completely," he continued, one hand stroking her back soothingly. "I know that you're not going anywhere."

She wrapped her arms around him and tucked her head under his chin, feeling pleasantly overwhelmed by his words. "I'm glad you're here," she said after a few minutes of cuddling had further restored her equilibrium, "but I'm sorry that Natasha disturbed you at work."

"Natasha does as she pleases," he responded. "She's just as apt to show up to tell me that she's taken out of a mole in the administrative department, and could I take care of the paperwork, as she is to show up and rat out a mouthy Scot who made her friend cry."

"Do you know what she made me eat before she handed me off to Clint?" she said, and the memory inspired the tiniest of smiles. "A pudding cup, Phil. She stood over me and made me eat butterscotch pudding, and then she went to tattle."

"Would it have been better if she had given you a shot of vodka and then tattled?" He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, and he was smiling. "Though it is interesting that when Natasha tries to find the non-alcoholic equivalent of a soothing drink, she immediately turns to pudding."

"I think we would need to run more experiments before we could make such a definitive statement."

There was mirth in his expression. "Are you up to the challenge, Dr. Simmons?"

The idea amused her, and even better, distracted her. "Oh, most definitely. I can think of a number of scenarios that might work."

"We can never tell her," he said seriously.

"No, never."

His gaze softened, and he leaned in to kiss her gently, the hand on her back moving down to curve over her hip. "Thor has returned. He'll be at dinner tonight, but we can make our excuses, if you prefer."

"No, I would like to meet him. It should be very exciting." And she was, she really was legitimately excited about meeting Thor, who by all accounts was personable and charming and genuinely kind. "You seem to like him a great deal."

"He is dreamy," he replied with a wry smile, and pressed a kiss to the crook of her neck. "I invited Skye, too. Hilarious hijinks for everyone."

He began to pull back, but stopped when she placed her hand lightly on the back of his head. "That felt nice," she said softly. "Do it again?"

She relaxed back into the pillows, letting her eyelids slip shut as his mouth trailed slowly across her neck and throat. The hand on her hip moved to her belly, hesitating there until she tipped her hips up in silent invitation.

His fingertips had barely slipped beneath the waistband of her underwear when the phone rang in the other room. "Go," she said with a small sigh, pushing lightly on his shoulders. "Alaska."

He left, and she took a moment to appreciate the sight of him in boxers and a t-shirt. Jemma liked him in just about anything, really, but she especially liked him in nothing. She slipped out of the bed as she heard him answer the phone, moving over to the window in the ensuing silence.

It was only mid-afternoon, and in the time she had been asleep a light dusting of snow had built up on the windowsill. The flurries were pretty, if one could ignore the possibility of a lightless, heatless city slowly blanketed by snow and ice.

She was still staring out the window when he returned a few minutes later, looking remarkably cheerful, all things considered.

"So, Alaska and half of Austria have power, and the hospitals in Belarus are running just fine on backup generators." He wrapped his arm around her waist and nuzzled his cheek against her hair. "Good news all around."

She turned into his embrace, slipping her arms around his neck. "Do you need to return to headquarters?"

He shook his head. "Not unless the lights here go off."

They both instinctively glanced upward at that, only to remember that the lights in the room were already off. "Knock on wood," he said wryly, and tapped his fist lightly against the window frame.

"How about a movie?" she suggested, kissing his collarbone lightly. She wasn't very interested in actually watching a film, but she would happily take a few more hours of cuddling up against him as cinematic white noise washed over them. "And maybe a snack," she added. "Are you hungry? I think the baby is hungry."

He was grinning when she looked back up. "Then we should do something about that." Rather than pull away, he dipped her unexpectedly over his arm, kissing her mid-laugh. Not for the first time, she was reminded at how fortunate she was in his many talents.

He pulled her back up, holding her tightly against him. "What would you like to eat?" he asked, brushing his lips against her forehead. "I'm not sure why I'm suddenly so excited."

"You just like feeding people," she said with a smile, squirming playfully out of his grasp. "If only we had known, on the Bus, that all we needed to do to make you happy was ask for dinner."

"I like feeding you," he corrected, following her into the living room. "Perhaps if you had come into my office and batted your eyelashes."

She glanced back to see his teasing smile. "I think you would have just asked me if I had a fever," she replied, and slowed so that he could catch up with her. "Not that I would have been brave enough to enter your office on such an errand in the first place."

"A pity." He rummaged through the fridge, pulling out cheese and the leftover fruit salad from that morning. "If you had been brave enough to ask, I probably would have indulged you."

She couldn't quite imagine such a thing, her mind getting as far as Phil giving her his best Agent Coulson expression with a mild, 'You want me to do what, again?' before stalling out entirely.

It was a funny thought, actually. If they actually had made it as far as the kitchen, she was sure it would have turned into some kind of team cooking lesson. He would have roped in Skye, Fitz, and Ward, and May would have most likely lingered in the doorway with a slight smirk on her face.

And then Fitz would have set something on fire. She couldn't begin to count the number of times he had set something ablaze when they had shared an apartment before the Bus, and the memories were suddenly bittersweet.

She pulled herself back into focus, spearing a chunk of pineapple from the plate Phil put in front of her. "Thank you for coming home," she said again, softly, and he took her free hand.

"Anytime."

* * *

Jemma still looked a bit bruised around the edges, but by the time they arrived at dinner her smile was no longer the pale shadow it had been earlier in the afternoon. Her resiliency was hardly a surprise to Phil at this point, but he still found it utterly remarkable.

Thankfully, Thor's exuberant welcome did a great deal to smooth over any lingering discomfort. It was difficult to be sad around Thor, whose cheerful attitude had a way of pummeling lesser emotions into submission.

"I am overjoyed to finally meet your bride," the man said, and gave a surprised Jemma a courtly half-bow. "I am told that you are a scholar of the first rank, Lady Jemma, and a fitting consort for the Son of Coul."

"She's too pretty for him," Tony interrupted, and Phil suppressed his annoyed sigh. He was becoming sick of that particular mantra, no matter how true it was.

"The Son of Coul is a warrior," Thor replied patiently, as if Tony were a small child, which Phil thought was an apt comparison. "I am sure that they are both fortunate in the other."

There were times when Phil really, really liked Thor, and this was one of those times.

"And as she is young and fertile, may they have many sons and daughters worthy of their lineage!" Thor continued, beaming, and that was the absolute end of Tony and Clint pretending to be at all serious for the evening.

* * *

"You want to teach me how to drive Lola?" Jemma asked him in disbelief when he brought up the idea in early February. "It's a bit cold, don't you think?"

"She does have a top." He adjusted the burner underneath his chicken stock in progress before turning away from the stove. "I think you need to know how to handle her more interesting abilities in case of an emergency. You do know how to drive stick, don't you?"

She looked amused at that, and answered primly, "You haven't made any complaints thus far."

"You've been spending far too much time around Clint." He shook his head, grinning. "And I do think you are very talented when it comes to that kind of gear shifting."

"Thank you," she replied graciously. "And yes, I do know how to drive a manual vehicle."

"One less thing to worry about, then." He leaned against the kitchen island opposite her, taking her hand across the brief expanse. "This Saturday? Tony said we could use his airstrip."

"It's a date," she said with a smile, though she looked just the tiniest bit nervous.

"I won't be mad if she gets scratched." He stroked the inside of her wrist with his thumb, giving her his most reassuring smile. "Or dented. Damage can be fixed. Don't worry."

She still looked worried when Saturday came, though she seemed to relax slightly when she surveyed the wide, empty tarmac, which was impeccably maintained without a pothole in sight. He wasn't surprised when she proved to be a more than competent driver, managing the combination of clutch, gas, and stick shift with quiet confidence.

"She handles very well," Jemma commented as she drove in lazy loops across the airstrip. "I can see why you guard her so fiercely."

Phil was more than enjoying the experience of seeing Jemma behind the wheel, especially as her nervousness continued to drop away. "She used to be my best girl," he said, only half joking. "Luckily, Lola doesn't mind no longer being first in my heart."

Jemma smirked slightly and slowed to a stop. "So what else can she do?"

Thus began several hours which both of them found more than a little harrowing. Jemma was perfectly fine with handling the guns and even maneuvering Lola in the air, but had difficulty doing both simultaneously. Phil thought that it was mostly a lack of familiarity which would clear itself up with practice, but Jemma was not so sure.

"It's like one of those horrible video games Fitz and Ward used to play," she griped during one of their breaks. "I hated those. Someone was always coming around a corner and shooting my character."

By the time they left her defensive maneuvers were still rather shaky, but he could at least rest easy in the knowledge that given the need, Jemma was capable of flying Lola away very, very quickly.

Jemma happily abandoned the driver's seat in favor of riding shotgun, and he drove them a few miles away from the airstrip, where he parked in a quiet and remote clearing. They were an hour away from the city, but it was still early afternoon and he saw no need to rush back.

"I have something for you," he said with a small smile, and handed her a manila envelope.

She pulled out the contents and after a moment her eyes widened. "We're no longer dead," she said in disbelief, and then paused, quirking a smile. "What an odd thing to say."

"We're officially alive and most likely owing taxes to our respective countries," he replied a bit dryly. "If the world weren't already in such turmoil, I might actually worry about that."

She laughed and stroked the surface of the document proclaiming Jemma Simmons' death certificate to be null and void. "I'm almost looking forward to it. A bit of normality, at last."

She looked up when he placed a small box onto the dashboard, and turned to give him a quizzical glance. "That's for you, too," he said. "I think you'll find them familiar."

Jemma tucked the documents back into the envelope and tucked it carefully to the side before picking up the box. She looked as if she already knew what was in it, her expression soft and dreamy, and still she sucked in a slightly shaky breath when she cracked open the lid.

"My sapphires," she said quietly, and looked up at him with tears in her eyes. "Natasha did save them."

She had also slipped them into his pocket earlier that week, on the same day that Maria had handed him proof of his own legal existence. Not a coincidence, as far as Phil was concerned. Natasha was masterminding everything, per usual.

Jemma poured the three rings into her hand, and after a moment pulled off the pair she already wore and presented her left hand to him. "Would you like to do the honors?"

He would, but not quite yet. "Can you wait until tomorrow? I may have overstepped my bounds," he admitted. "I asked Hill to get us a marriage license."

She stared at him for a moment, wide-eyed. "A marriage license?"

The hesitant way she said it was not an ego boost. She certainly deserved a better wedding than a few minutes before a magistrate with a handful of witnesses, but there was little more he could give her as international borders closed and the lights flickered out, city by city.

It wasn't just the power, now. Dams were leaking, and a train had derailed in Italy just the day before. The track had been sabotaged, the spikes ripped from the iron and thrown to the side.

It was a terrible time to marry. Phil didn't particularly care, at this point.

She smiled, suddenly, beaming as if he had offered her the moon itself. "We're getting married tomorrow," she said giddily, and dropped the rings back into the box before shutting it hastily.

"You're not disappointed?" he asked, relief making him feel lightheaded.

"How could I be?" She climbed into his lap, an echo of that day in Lima, but this time her tears had nothing at all to do with fear. "We're getting married tomorrow," she breathed, peppering his face with kisses before laughing and sitting back on his thighs, her back against the steering wheel. "It's for the best," she said with a teasing smile. "If we gave Tony too much notice, there would be elephants and strippers at the reception."

Strippers _on_ elephants, most likely. A horrifying thought. "I'm sorry you won't get to wear a wedding dress," he said, his hands sliding down her sides to her hips. "You would be beautiful in white."

"I'd rather be married," she said with a shrug, and then gave him a look of consternation. "Not that I didn't feel married before. But it would be nice to see it in black and white, don't you think? There is something so official about a paper trail."

"I know," he assured her. "I wasn't playacting in Lima, and neither were you. We're just taking advantage of-"

"Of being alive?" she asked with a smile.

"Exactly."

Her expression turned a bit wicked. "I made a very good decision when I dressed this morning, then."

He hadn't paid much attention to her outfit that morning, other than noting that she looked lovely, as usual, and warm, which always made him feel more at ease. He took careful stock of her, now, stroking his fingers down the cashmere of her sweater to the soft wool of her skirt. Her stomach was still little more than a soft swell, though he expected that would change very shortly. "You look beautiful," he said earnestly, moving his hands to her legs.

She gave him a sweet smile before pulling up the hem of her skirt, revealing the tops of thigh-high stockings and what was indisputably a garter belt. Black lace against her creamy skin, and in that soft, pretty voice that drove him crazy she asked, "Do you like it?"

He was momentarily speechless. "My only complaint is that you've never worn anything like this before," he answered her when he found his voice again, running his fingertips across the tops of her stockings. "It's a stimulating sight."

"I noticed." She looked very pleased with herself, he noted, and she had every reason to be. "I'm glad my hypothesis was correct," she said as she undid his belt. "Would Lola mind, do you think, if we celebrated our engagement right here?"

In answer he leaned forward and kissed her deeply, feeling her hands temporarily relax against the fastenings of his trousers. When he pulled back she looked veritably starry-eyed.

"I'm going to be Mrs. Coulson," she murmured, unbuttoning his shirt with steady hands.

"You want to take my name?" he asked softly, absurdly touched by the notion.

"Oh, yes," she said with a smile. "Though I expect that Tony will call me Mrs. Agent no matter what name I use. But," she added seriously, "I've only published under Jemma Simmons, so professionally I really should retain my maiden name."

"I wouldn't want you to lose an iota of your professional reputation," he said, even as _Jemma Coulson_ echoed in his mind. "I'm afraid the idea of you being Mrs. Coulson is making me feel very possessive."

"As long as we're both equally possessive, I'm perfectly fine with that." She kissed him again, and pulled back with a satisfied expression. "Mine."

They got home before dark- barely.

* * *

"I'm not going to lie, this is ridiculously exciting," Skye said the next morning as she rifled through Jemma's closet. "It's like our very own team shotgun wedding."

"I think Clint is actually bringing a shotgun," Natasha said from her spot on the bed as she carefully painted her nails with a second coat of polish. "For form's sake."

"Is this something Americans actually do?" Jemma asked, confused. She unwound her damp hair from her towel turban. "I thought that was a myth."

"Ehh." Skye shrugged. "Not very common these days, admittedly. But still, the idea- _the idea_- is comedy gold." She pulled a long white silk dress from the closet, giving it a confused frown. "Did we buy this, or did it just evolve in some kind of wedding miracle?"

Jemma caught Natasha's smirk. "I think Natasha has been plotting." She shook back her damp, uncombed hair and took the dress from Skye, holding it in front of herself before the mirror. "It does look nice, doesn't it?" she said softly, giving the skirt a twitch so that it swished slightly.

"It will look better when you're in it," Skye said firmly, taking the hanger from her hands and pushing her toward the bathroom. "Hair first."

"I don't want it straight," Jemma insisted as Natasha trailed after them to supervise. "I like a bit of curl."

"Soft and romantic," Natasha agreed with a nod. "The less we do, the better."

Jemma only hoped that their definition of 'less' lined up with hers. After several disagreements they all arrived at what Jemma considered to be a somewhat reasonable compromise for her hair and makeup, at which point she herded them out of the bedroom and shut the door. The only person who should know with any certainty what she wore under her dress was herself, and, eventually, Phil.

She shrugged off her bathrobe and smiled at her reflection in the mirror over the dresser. Eventually the scars over her abdomen might cause her some trouble, but she suspected they were small enough that all she faced was some annoying itching when she was closer to term. It was practically a certainty that they would look worse after she gave birth, and she would likely have stretch marks in the bargain, but she felt it was a small price to pay.

Jemma saw no need to hurry as she dressed, enjoying the slide of silk and fine lace against her skin as she drew on each piece of clothing, finally robing herself in the folds of the white dress. In another week or so it would have been too small, and Jemma found herself wondering where, exactly, Natasha had obtained such a dress last minute- and when she had found the time to sneak it into Jemma's closet like a mischievous sister.

She blinked back a few tears, wishing for her parents. It was a futile wish. She might legally exist, now, but England had closed its borders during the last week of January. Until the current situation was taken care of, she could hardly appear without warning on their doorstep. It wouldn't do to draw attention to them; better that they should pass under Loki's radar for as long as possible. There would be time enough, after, to break the news that she was still alive- as well as the news that they were going to be grandparents, and that their son-in-law was not that much younger than they were.

"Are you done yet?" Skye called through the door. "Seriously, Jemma, I'm ready to party."

She gave herself a slight shake and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief before opening the door. "Will I do?" she asked cheerfully.

"Admirably," Natasha replied with a smile as Skye circled her, grinning. "One last thing." Natasha pulled a small spray of orange-blossoms out of a pasteboard box and pinned them carefully into Jemma's hair. _Real_ orange-blossoms, miraculously, still fragrant despite the February chill and the growing number of darkened florist shops.

"There," Natasha said in satisfaction, pulling one lock of hair forward to drape over Jemma's shoulder. "A sop to tradition. Don't cry, even waterproof mascara can only take so much."

Jemma laughed at that. "I'll do my best, but I can't promise anything."

"Wait, wait." Skye pulled a small Starkpad out of her bag and switched on the camera. "We need a picture. Squeeze in."

Natasha and Skye crowded on either side of Jemma, each of them placing an arm around her as Skye angled the eye of the tablet to catch the three of them in the same frame. "Say 'wedding day selfie!'" Skye ordered with a sly smile, and the first shot captured Natasha rolling her eyes in response to that phrase.

"Definitely saving that one," Skye said with a grin. "Okay, one more. Let's look like the badass bitches we are."

The photo, which would eventually be emailed to everyone who could claim a friendly connection to the Avengers, featured Skye grinning cheerfully, Natasha's good-natured smirk, and Jemma, laughing wholeheartedly between them.

* * *

"No," Phil said, staring at Tony as if he had lost his mind. "Absolutely not."

"Agent, I did not become an internet-ordained minister to just sit on the sidelines." Tony waived the certificate at him again. "The state of New York says I am a legally registered officiant, and I intend to take advantage of that fact."

Phil exchanged a glance with Pepper, who merely rolled her eyes. "I'm done arguing with him about this," she said, a flute of champagne in her hand. "Count yourself lucky that he's not wearing one of his suits."

"Though that would be impressive," Tony mused. "Think of the wedding photos."

From the corner of his eye he could see Clint and even Maria snickering at the thought. Every event with Tony inevitably turned into a circus, even with less than twenty-four hours notice. "Fine." Phil held up his hand in warning. "But you are _not_ officiating as Iron Man. And put away the shotgun, Clint, it isn't funny."

"Yes, it is," Clint disagreed, but left the room nonetheless.

Phil retreated to a quiet corner of the room, watching Tony suspiciously as he discussed something with a disapproving Pepper, who looked unamused by his exaggerated gestures. May joined him, watching the same sight for a moment before speaking.

"I won't lie, this relationship worried me at first." She cut a glance at him, smiling slightly. "But I was wrong. You're good for each other, and I'm happy for you."

"Thank you." He hadn't needed her approval, but he was glad to have it. "Jemma is-"

Words failed him, but May offered them up easily enough. "She's the best thing to ever happen to you," she said dryly. "I know. I'm looking forward to seeing you as a doting father. Your daughter is going to wrap you around her little finger."

They hadn't learned the sex of the baby yet, and he wasn't sure they would until the birth. Jemma had said she was content to be surprised, but admitted she was also hoping to stem the tide of gender normative color-coded onesies. "And if we have a son?"

May shook her head. "It's a girl. I have fifty dollars riding on that fact in the betting pool."

"I'm sure Jemma will do her best not to disappoint you," he said with a small smile, spotting Clint returning sans shotgun. Across the room Tony had roped Bruce and Maria into whatever fruitless conversation he was still attempting with Pepper (a mistake on Tony's part, as Bruce and Maria were likely to side with Pepper, no matter the topic), and Ward lingered in another corner, making what Phil could only guess was awkward small talk with Thor and Jane Foster, a glass of whiskey in his hand. Natasha and Skye- who had all but shoved him out of the apartment earlier that morning- would be along with Jemma shortly.

Fitz slipped into the room at that moment, hesitating in the doorway as all eyes turned his way. Phil hadn't seen him since before his conversation with Jemma in January, though he knew that Skye sought him out on a regular basis. Phil had briefly considered trying to speak with the other man- not to chide him for snapping at Jemma, but because having lost both of his parents, Phil knew all too well the pain of familial loss- but he had doubted that Fitz would be willing to speak with him.

Fitz met his eyes from across the room, and after a moment gave him a solemn nod before joining Ward, who slapped him on the back in greeting.

Awkward as it might be, Phil was glad that Fitz had joined them. They might no longer be the team they had been before Jemma had left the Bus, but Phil was fond of everyone who had served with him during that period of time, and he knew that Jemma would be the happier for having Fitz at the ceremony, even if their relationship was still strained.

May poked his arm. "Pay attention to the door, Phil," she said in a dryly amused tone, and he turned to see Jemma in white silk with flowers in her hair, and he was suddenly very glad that he had put on his best suit, the better to be a foil for her. He didn't know where Jemma had found that dress, but against the rain-spattered windows she was like a vision of lush summer, vibrant with life and promise. She met him in the center of the room, smiling as she reached out to smooth a nonexistent wrinkle on his tie.

"Are you ready?" she asked softly, meeting his gaze, and he leaned forward to kiss her gently, his fingertips pressed lightly under her chin.

"Excuse me, Agent," Tony protested, interrupting what had been a perfectly lovely moment. "The kissing comes at the end. There are rules, you know."

"I can't believe Tony Stark is chiding me about rules," Phil replied dryly as he offered Jemma his arm. "Get on with it, then."

"Is he officiating?" Jemma asked, looking amused. "How very kind of you, Tony."

'Kind' wasn't the word Phil would use, but Tony's paperwork checked out and he didn't have the patience to try and dig up another officiant at this point. This was obviously his punishment for having asked Pepper to arrange for an officiant in the first place.

"You're welcome," Tony said with a nod, and opened the small book he held. He took in a deep breath, a smile curving his lips, and began.

"Mawwiage. Mawwaige is what bwings us togethew today…"

Really, it was only the fact that Jemma was laughing along with everyone else that kept Phil from throwing something at the most exasperating and generous man he had ever met.

"Now, now," Jemma interrupted, gently but firmly, a smile still on her face. "We did not ask for the Princess Bride special. The traditional ceremony will do well enough."

"Probably for the best," Tony admitted. "I only practiced the first few lines." He flipped to a different section of the book and cleared his throat. "Fellow scientists, assassins, unrepentant jackasses, and peerless Pepper, we gather here today to join this totally undeserving man to this fine specimen of brilliant womanhood, and yes, Pepper, I can see you telling me to cut it out, but I am on a roll, _so_..."

* * *

Jemma had half-expected candlelight and slow seduction from Phil (ever the romantic) on their wedding night, but once they actually made it back to their apartment they were both too eager to wait. He had insisted on carrying her across the threshold, at which point he kicked the door shut behind them and carried her off to bed with single-minded focus. She had already loosened his tie when they were in the elevator, and by the time he placed her on her feet in the bedroom the tie had been abandoned in the hallway and his shirt was halfway unbuttoned.

Now they lay panting in the aftermath, the lights still burning overhead and her dress crumpled into a heap on the floor. In their haste they had never unpinned the orange-blossoms from Jemma's hair, and the flowers hung loosely from their moorings, all the more fragrant for being half-crushed.

"I can't believe Tony asked me to love, honor, and _obey_," Jemma said with a laugh, staring up at their reflection in the mirror. "That wretched man."

"Kicking him in the shin was absolutely the correct response," Phil replied, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "I'm not sure what I would have done if you had actually sworn to obey. I might have just walked out of the room."

"I hope Skye got a picture of that moment." Jemma turned her head slightly to meet his eyes. "We could frame it and hang it above the mantel."

"Such a photograph would deserve the place of honor," he agreed, and spread his hand across the slight swell of her abdomen. "Are you satisfied, Mrs. Coulson?" he asked with a slow smile, the dimples she loved so appearing on his face. "A hurried affair, perhaps, but I thought it went pretty well, despite Tony's antics."

"I'm very satisfied," she assured him, and added pertly, "In all possible ways."

"Good." He was stroking her stomach now with apparent fascination, the calluses on his fingers rasping deliciously against her skin. "Hopefully we'll be back in Lima soon."

She was beginning to doubt that they would make it back before the birth at this point, if at all, but decided not to bring it up. "I'm very happy you arranged this," she told him, placing her hand over his on her stomach. "Mr. Coulson."

That sounded decidedly odd, and she frowned. "I'm not sure I like that. I like Mrs. Coulson, but not that."

"Senor and Senora Coulson?" he suggested, his thumb dipping into her belly button. "Or just Jemma and Phil Coulson. I'm easy," he said, and moved a little closer. "If you change your mind about taking my name, I could always become Phil Simmons."

"I haven't changed my mind." She stretched, moving her arm so that his head rested on her shoulder. She was tired, suddenly, worn out from the excitement and pleasures of the day. Tony's eccentric ceremony had led straight into a raucous reception, though she had noted that Bruce, for obvious reasons, had slipped out fairly early.

Fitz had been next to leave, but he had caught her in a quietish corner beforehand, taking her hand and wishing her joy in an earnest, if solemn, tone.

Phil touched her cheek lightly, and smiled when their eyes met. "Go to sleep," he said, stroking his thumb along her cheekbone. "I'll still be here in the morning."

After a moment longer she stood lazily, stretching contentedly before walking into the bathroom to clean herself up. As she pulled the pins and blooms from her hair he joined her, brushing his teeth as she washed her face. All perfectly normal activities, but the buzz of glee she had felt when she signed her name to the marriage certificate still lingered, lending a rosy glow to the moment.

"Good night, Mrs. Coulson," he murmured in her ear when they returned to bed, the room now cast in shadows, and she smiled, moving so that her head was lying over his heart.

"Good night, Phil," she said, and slept.


	26. Elettaria cardamomum

_and on the eyes_  
_black sleep of night_  
-Sappho (Carson)

He couldn't say that he had gotten used to waking up next to Jemma- as far as he was concerned, there was no getting used to waking up to Jemma, rosy and tousled- but it had become less of a shock over time. Even in sleep she cuddled close, tangling her legs with his and half-draping herself over his chest. Now, as her body underwent its slow change, he more and more often woke to her gradually burgeoning stomach pressed against his hip, one of her legs hooked around one of his. Eventually even this position would no longer be tenable, but early in her second trimester it was the norm.

The morning after their wedding he woke to find their customary positions reversed, his head lying against her breasts and his arms wrapped securely around her. Only the way she was gently stroking his hair kept him from scrambling backward immediately, conscious of how tender her breasts were and how fragile the slight swell of her stomach seemed.

"Shhh," she crooned, one arm slipping down against his back to hold him to her. "You're not hurting me; don't worry."

Still, he shifted slightly to loosen his hold, and she ruffled his hair with her fingers in response. "Usually I'm playing the octopus," she said in amusement. "I do appreciate these odd mornings when you're the one who clings, you know."

"I've slept in some very cramped spots during my time with SHIELD," he replied, his lips brushing against her skin with every word. "And not always alone. Eventually you learn not to be the guy who cuddles his partner in the field."

She laughed slightly, the vibration buzzing along his skin. "Perhaps we can retrain you."

"I'm sure you will eventually." She still smelled like orange-blossoms and rosewater, and he resolved that when they returned to Lima he would plant orange trees for her, if they could thrive in that environment. She was meant to wear orange-blossoms in her hair, and not just as a bride. "I'm not hurting you?"

"Not a bit." One of her hands was playing in the hair just above the nape of his neck, smoothing over the sensitive skin just firmly enough for it to be arousing, and not an annoying tickle. "What time do you need to leave?"

He would have to leave, eventually- doubtless something had happened in the middle of the night that would require his attention- but it was so sweet to lie here with her before sunrise. He could barely see the clock, but it appeared to read just past five in the morning. "I can stay for a few more hours," he said, stroking one hand down her side to the curve of her hips, and then reversing the path. "I could make breakfast. Would you like crepes?"

"That would be nice," she said after a moment. "But knowing you, you will make them in the most time-consuming way possible-"

"The correct way, you mean."

"Exactly," she continued, massaging his scalp in a very distracting manner. "So I will take a rain check on honeymoon crepes and make love with my husband instead."

He lifted his head enough to catch her gaze in the dim room, and found she was already smiling. "You can make oatmeal afterward," she said cheerfully. "That won't take very long."

He moved away from her then to switch on a lamp, taking in her happy face and beautiful curves in the pool of light with a feeling of contentment. "We did rush things last night, didn't we?"

She raised a brow at that. "It might have been fast, but you are always exceptionally thorough."

"Still," he said in the kind of gently stern tone that he found had always moved mountains for him as an agent, "I wouldn't want to leave my wife wanting."

She tilted her head slightly against the pillow, staring up at him tenderly. "You've never left me wanting. I hope you can say the same."

Even holding her hand was a fulfilling experience. In comparison, every moment spent between her thighs was a damn near religious epiphany. "Jemma," he said in as earnest a tone as he could muster, "you have never been anything short of amazing."

Her cheeks pinked with pleasure at his words. "How very kind." She tapped her lips, grinning. "Come here and amaze me."

He certainly did his best, stirred on by her eager hands and the soft sounds she made in the back of her throat. At one point she pressed one hand against his shoulder, a sure signal that she wished to flip their positions, and he rolled onto his back, pulling her with him.

"It feels different, and it doesn't," she said almost breathlessly, balancing herself with her hands against his shoulders and rolling her hips expertly against him. She stared down at him coquettishly, her hair spilling around his face. "Call me Mrs. Coulson," she murmured, her nails digging into his skin. "Please."

"Mrs. Coulson." His hands tightened around her hips as she bit her lower lip. "Jemma Coulson. _My wife_."

She keened softly in response to that, her rhythm faltering, and he pulled her down and rolled them onto their sides, hitching her thigh over his hip. "My lovely darling," he murmured in her ear, and smiled when she shuddered against him.

"If you're not going to refer to me as Mr. Coulson," he said afterwards, his head pillowed in the space between her breasts and the gentle rise of her stomach, "what are you going to call me?"

"Agent Coulson, of course." She chuckled and tickled the skin under his ear, sounding sleepy and sated.

"That's going to raise questions when we introduce ourselves."

"Mr. Coulson sounds too much like a maths teacher," she explained, and yawned. "Agent and Mrs. Coulson. It sounds like a spy novel."

"It makes you sound like a side-kick," he protested. "Or a Bond girl."

"The Bond girl who lived and snagged 007, who knows her way around a lab." She smoothed her fingers over the furrows on his brow. "The Bond girl who will be having Philsdottir or Philson, come summer."

He cupped a hand over her stomach protectively. "I will not let her give you one of those names," he promised their child sincerely, ignoring her laugh. "You will be getting a sensible, perfectly normal name."

"So Iphigenia is off the table, then?" she asked innocently, the affectation spoiled by a giggle. "What about Achilles?"

"Your mother is joking." He kissed her stomach, spreading his fingers across her skin. "This one time, don't listen to her."

Jemma hummed and stroked his hair. "I was thinking that we might ask Clint and Natasha to be godparents," she said softly. "What do you think?"

"That is," he said slowly, considering the idea, "the most brilliant and the most insane idea I have ever heard."

"In other words, you love it."

"Yes," he admitted with a smile, and kissed her stomach again, levering himself up slightly so that his lips landed on the lowermost curve. "I love it. I hope you realize that they will try and teach the baby how to pick locks. And use all manner of weaponry."

"No guns," she said firmly. "No knives. Archery is acceptable; maybe fencing. At the proper age."

Even with those guidelines, he had no doubt that Clint and Natasha could produce a more than credible operative if they weren't supervised very carefully. "I think the term 'proper age' needs to be better defined."

"Most likely." She stretched underneath him, and from his vantage point he could see the flex and curl of her toes against the rumpled sheets. "I want a midwife," she said softly. "I don't want to have the baby in a hospital."

He was torn between absolute understanding of her reasons why and a kind of grasping fear that he had never quite felt before. He sat up and stared at her for a moment before finally lying down beside her, placing his head on the same pillow.

"You know why," she murmured. "I don't want to be kept in a hospital bed for hours on end when I would rather walk. I don't want drugs to induce labor unless absolutely necessary, and I definitely don't want an epidural." She shivered slightly. "I want- I want to feel like I'm in a safe environment when I give birth. I don't want to worry every time a nurse or doctor shuts the door to the room."

She clasped a hand over his, fear in her eyes. "I'll go to the hospital if there is an emergency, but I need you to promise me you won't leave me alone. No matter what."

A husband following his wife into the OR would not be well received by hospital staff, but he would pull any strings necessary to do so, if need be. The idea of Jemma needing emergency care for a complicated pregnancy was not something he wished to consider, but he took some consolation in the fact that she was young and healthy, and the odds were in her favor.

Probably. The statistics didn't cover women who were literally on their second life; Jemma was in a class of her own.

He pulled her into his arms, needing the closeness of her in that moment. "I will follow you anywhere," he promised, resting his hand against the side of her face. "I won't leave you alone, not for a second. We should speak with Nat and Clint, too- extra guards would not go amiss."

She nodded, the tension in her face easing. "That's a good idea. But I still want a midwife."

"Then we'll find you a midwife." He began considering the logistics in his mind. A midwife was a good idea, in some ways- it would be easier to vet the credentials of one or two people, instead of an entire hospital staff (though he would still research the staff of the nearest hospital before the time came, whether they were in New York, Lima, or somewhere else entirely), and he was willing to hire a fleet of midwives to ensure Jemma's comfort.

He would also need to map out the fastest route to the nearest hospital. Having Lola on hand would shave off a great deal of time; perhaps he would do speed trials.

She was smiling slightly. "You're already thinking of this as a mission, aren't you? Examining all the angles, all the possible outcomes."

"Yes," he admitted. "Hazard of the job."

"That's good," she said encouragingly. "I don't want you to worry more than you need to." Her hand curved around the back of his neck and pulled him gently toward her until their foreheads touched. "I'm going to be fine," she breathed. "We're going to have a baby, and the baby is going to be fine, and then we'll see how well your SHIELD training holds up to infant-induced sleep deprivation."

As he considered this her eyelids began to slip closed, a drowsy expression stealing over her face. "You'll be safe at work?" she asked in a mumble, snuggling closer to him.

The alarm wasn't set to go off for another hour, and so he settled in for a brief nap. "I'll be very careful," he promised. "Please stay with the others."

She nodded slightly, and muttered, "I'm working with Bruce, later."

If Bruce didn't have such excellent control her work with him might have worried Phil; as it was, whatever they were working on had Tony in such raptures that he had a tendency to discuss it only in ridiculously extended metaphors while Jemma and Bruce exchanged amused looks. Jemma had tried to explain their project to Phil, and all he took from it was that it involved lasers and dendrotoxin and was apparently unprecedented, which didn't surprise him in the least.

He only wished that their trials thus far had been a bit less destructive.

When the alarm went off an hour later, Jemma uncurled herself from the sheets and followed him into the shower, the sleepy, satisfied smile on her face a benediction. She sighed happily under his hands as he washed her hair and every inch of her skin before she returned the favor, pausing now and then to kiss him lazily under the spray.

He did make them oatmeal- she had a taste for it, she said- with pears, cardamom, and brown sugar, and they cuddled up together on the couch to eat in the early morning sunlight. "This is very good," she said appreciatively, stealing a bite from his bowl when hers was empty. "What a clever husband I have."

He ran his fingers through her damp hair as they finished what was left in his bowl, the strands drawing up into gentle waves under his hand as they dried.

She tasted like cardamom when he kissed her goodbye.

* * *

"Good morning, Annie Hall," Clint said cheerfully, and Jemma blushed slightly. On a whim she had paired one of Phil's button down shirts with her own dark denim and a long open cardigan, and at the time she hadn't thought that it looked odd. Any doubt she might have had had fled when Phil had taken in her outfit only to press her against the wall and kiss her heatedly, his eyes dark and intense.

"No, it's adorable. Very hipster chic," Skye insisted, punching him lightly on the arm. "Mr. I Wear Black And Purple In The Field."

"I'm not sure what that has to do with anything," he responded in mock irritation as Bruce rolled his eyes.

"It means your fashion sense is suspect. Though," she added magnanimously, "your uniform does do great things for your ass."

"Which was my intention," he replied with a serious nod. "You have no idea how many designs SHIELD's version of Edna Mode mocked up before I found the right one."

"Were there capes?"

"No capes, Skye." Clint tsked and wagged a finger. "No capes."

They continued to bicker playfully as Bruce and Jemma quietly discussed the best way to calibrate what was now the fourth iteration of their invention. It was a gun- there was no other word for it, which Jemma hated because she really was not that fond of guns, even after lengthy training with them- but unlike the night-night gun she and Fitz had developed, this weapon needed no bullets. It simply needed a cartridge of specially formulated dendrotoxin and a very carefully primed laser- or at least, that was the theory.

Their first test model had exploded in Dum-E's grip, the second had simply failed to work. The third- well, the third had blown a hole in a wall on the fifty-first floor, though mercifully not one of the load-bearing ones. Tony's response had been to move all other labs to another floor, telling Bruce and Jemma that he would be putting up a plaque in their honor outside of the elevator, and could they please try not to destroy his baby from then on out.

Seeing as Tony routinely set his own lab on fire, Jemma thought that was a bit hypocritical, but he was the one footing the bill. In any case, the nervous twitch Phil developed under one eye whenever she mentioned an incident in the lab, no matter how small, made her even more cautious than she already was.

Even with that in mind, her memories of the way he had been in bed the night after the incident with the third model still made her shiver happily. She hadn't even been on the fifty-first floor at the time of testing, but on the fiftieth, watching on the security feed, but he had reacted as if she herself had held the target.

It had been delicious. When she had told him so the next morning, he had blushed and admitted that he might have overreacted.

Eventually Clint left, and Skye commandeered a somewhat empty table in the corner of the room, tapping away at her laptop and bobbing her head slightly to whatever music was coming through her earbuds. Like clockwork, Natasha appeared at noon and coerced all of them into eating lunch with her. By the end of the hour Tony, Clint, and Thor had also made their way to the common room, which answered Jemma's unvoiced question as to why Natasha had ordered quite so many pizzas from the kitchen. Thor demolished two entire pies by himself with a kind of cheerful nonchalance that Jemma found endearing.

It was early evening when they finally noticed the obvious, as the dark settled heavily on the city and the snow fell outside. Skye had left for a visit with Fitz an hour before, and both Jemma and Bruce had become so caught up in their calculations that it was only hunger that finally made Jemma look away from the whiteboard in front of them.

It was dark- too dark, for a city with as much light pollution as New York. The lights burned in Stark Tower, but outside the windows the only light belonged to the cars still on the street. A traffic jam had formed, illuminating the road and the sidewalks below and for as far as the eye could see.

"Oh, shit," Bruce sighed beside her, running a weary hand over his face, and his words neatly encapsulated everything she felt. "That crazy bastard left us lit up like a beacon."

Jemma had been too busy thinking about the other ramifications to even consider the ones that might affect the building she was actually standing in, but at his words her mind arrowed in on one very important question- where was Phil?

It was just past six. Normally he would have appeared in the lab by then to walk with her back to their apartment. They had a routine, or as close to a routine as they could have, given his current work. They would discuss what to make for dinner as they walked, and then give each other a proper kiss hello once the apartment door had been closed behind them. Tony had too many security cameras in the public areas for their taste; what embraces they shared outside the apartment were generally chaste.

Generally. The video Tony had compiled from security footage and played at the reception proved that not even the most obscure corners were free from Jarvis' prying eyes, and Jemma had thanked a multitude of deities that their largest indiscretion had been some light petting in one of the elevators.

"I need to find Phil," she said, feeling her heart rate speed up, and quickly turned toward the door.

"I'm coming with you." Bruce followed close behind her, pausing only to secure the lab door. "We should take the stairs," he said quietly as she unthinkingly headed toward the elevator, and she quickly detoured to the stairwell. He was right; the absolute last thing they wanted was to find themselves in a stuck (or falling) elevator.

Even if they only found themselves trapped, if Bruce grew too agitated and shifted- well, Jemma wouldn't have to worry about anything ever again, in that case.

The lab was eight floors below the one reserved for the Avengers, and they made it back to the familiar halls without incident. As below, the lights burned steadily, and Jarvis responded readily to their queries.

No, Agent Coulson had not yet returned.

No, Sir was unavailable at the present time.

No, Agents Romanov and Barton were currently off the premises.

Yes, Thor Odinson was currently located in the penthouse.

"Good enough," Bruce said with a certain amount of relief. That they were thirty floors below the penthouse did not worry Jemma overly much- her calves would complain the next day, but that would be the extent of her problems.

They detoured into his apartment for water and energy bars, and it was as she slowed slightly behind him on their way back to the stairwell that it happened: Bruce stepped through the door, holding it open for her, and in the second before she would have stepped through herself the door ripped itself from his hand, slamming shut almost in her face.

"Is this lockdown protocol?" she asked Jarvis, a bit more frantically than she had intended, as she tried to budge the locked handle.

"No, Mrs. Coulson," he responded serenely. "Lockdown protocol does not forbid the passage between floors."

"Then why is the door locked?" She met Bruce's gaze through the window, and after a moment's hesitation pointed upward emphatically. If he hadn't already looked so stressed, she might have suggested that he allow Hulk to take care of the door. He had some modicum of control over his other form when he voluntarily let the beast out to play, but with his expression the way it was, they would need Thor as a buffer.

"My instructions have been overridden, Mrs. Coulson."

After a moment of thought Bruce gave her a small nod before turning and sprinting up the stairs, leaving her alone in a brightly lit hall with only a compromised computer system to converse with.

Not the best of honeymoons, she acknowledged. If it hadn't been for the lovely morning, she might even call it the worst.

"Can you tell me who has hacked your system?"

"No, Mrs. Coulson."

Just as well. She wouldn't have been able to trust any answer Jarvis gave her, anyway. Now she wondered if Thor was even in the building, or if any of the earlier information Jarvis had given them was true. She might have just sent away her only protector on a fool's errand.

She turned away from the door, making her way to Natasha and Clint's apartment. She had a key- Natasha had pressed it into her hand in the early days without a word- and she knew that if anyone would have what she needed, it would be them. For the moment, Jarvis was her enemy, and Jarvis must be fooled to whatever extent she could manage. She couldn't do anything about heat sensors- she wasn't even sure if there were any built into the security system, though it wouldn't surprise her- but spray paint would at least blind the actual cameras to her movements.

She found an array of spray paint in the hall closet of their apartment, the hues covering nearly every color of the rainbow. _Why_, was her immediate mental query, only to be followed by _because they can_. She didn't care if they were graffitiing Iron Man slurs on the underpasses, their 'be prepared' attitude was once again saving her ass. Black would do nicely for her purposes, and she helped herself to several of the disposable respirators that sat on the same shelf, as well as a small stepladder.

"Mrs. Coulson, I really must advise against your current course of action."

Jarvis sounded almost snippy, but Jemma chalked that up to her own panic. "So sorry, Jarvis," she said quickly, and pulled on one of the respirators before climbing onto the ladder. "You'll forgive me one day."

A harsh stripe of black paint covered the eye of the camera and the surrounding wall in seconds.

One down, dozens more to go, and those were just the ones she had seen.

"At least I'll have some blind spots," she muttered, and made short work of the second.

* * *

The power shut off in the boroughs first, around five in the evening. At that point Phil was considering, for perhaps the tenth time that day, simply shutting off his computer and returning to Stark Tower, and was seconds away from giving in. He had been distracted ever since he had arrived that morning, his gold ring and the taste of cardamom forceful reminders that there were much more pleasant things he could be doing if a megalomaniac with daddy issues weren't using the world as his own personal game of SimCity.

Then the power went out in Queens, and within five minutes Brooklyn also went dark, and so on until Manhattan alone remained lit. Throughout the boroughs the subways flooded and generators blew, the crisis causing the hallways of SHIELD's headquarters to swarm with agents hurrying hither and yon to attend to the most crucial of the current emergencies. Phil remained in the hub, in the center of all things, triaging the incoming reports and dispatching teams of agents with the kind of practiced calm that had gotten him to level eight in the first place.

He was worried about Jemma- she was, unsurprisingly, in the back of his mind the entire time- but Manhattan still had power, and she was surrounded by some of the best fighters and tacticians he had ever met. She was no slouch herself, when it came to self-defense. Even with her physical disadvantage, she had proved time and time again that she was cleverer than most, and he clung to that as tunnels flooded and the temperature dropped with the falling night.

Maria tapped him on the shoulder in a sudden lull, the relative quiet almost more troubling than the buzz of hundreds of agents attending to each new crisis as it arose.

"Phil," she said, and opened her mouth to continue as the lights flickered overhead.

Those remaining in the hub stilled, staring upward as they waited for the inevitable, save for the group of technicians and engineers who sprinted out of the room at the first sign of potential electrical failure.

"Why did he wait so long?" Phil asked softly, almost to himself, and Maria answered him just as quietly.

"Because he was gathering an army."

The lights went out in Manhattan.

* * *

_Notes: Many thanks to SinEater for "Agent and Mrs. Coulson."_


	27. Papaver somniferum

_Nox [Night] approaches: a garland of poppies binds her peaceful brow, black Somnia [Dreams] trail her._  
-Fasti 4.661, Ovid (Boyle)

When Jemma next saw Tony Stark, she fully intended to make him sit down so that she could tell him how incredibly _stupid_ he had been when designing Stark Tower. It was entirely possible that she would ask Clint to put together an accompanying powerpoint presentation, because he was surprisingly talented at that.

Was it really necessary to have so many security cameras on a private floor? Did he have to install retractable metal curtains into the windows? And above all, why, _why_, were the interior doors wired into Jarvis' system?

The door to the stairwell nearly slamming shut on her toes had been bad enough, but it hadn't taken her long to realize that every door on that floor was similarly equipped, and it had been sheer luck that Jarvis had let her enter and exit Natasha and Clint's apartment without trapping her inside or taking off a finger.

The windows had been shielded first, after she had made her way through the hallways and public rooms with her ladder and spray paint, leaving untidy streaks of black over anything that could conceivably be or hide a camera. She had been in the common room, her back to the window as she painted over a suspiciously glassy dot in a piece of vintage Captain America memorabilia (feeling rather like she were desecrating a church in the process), when a quiet _snick_ behind her made her whirl around, only to find the night sky obliterated. Faintly she heard similar sounds rolling down the hall, and ran out into the hallway just in time to see the last stars disappear.

Then the doors up and down the hall began banging open and closed at irregular intervals, slamming shut with enough force that she could feel the slight tremor under her feet.

It was at that moment that Jemma made two very important decisions.

Point the first: she would never again live in a building that contained this many so-called 'security measures'.

Point the second: she would be taking Tony up on his job offer, but she would make him pay through the nose for the privilege of having her as an employee (an off-site employee who lived far, far away in Lima, and the contract would be so heavily weighted in her favor that the terms would bind him more strenuously than they would her).

The noise was cacophonous. Even the common areas were cut off from her, now, leaving her stuck in a looping hallway that offered no places to hide and nowhere to run.

She resisted the urge to curse aloud; even with the noise made by the doors, giving Jarvis- and whoever was controlling him- any indicator as to where she was in the halls would most certainly be a bad idea. Instead, she contented herself with compiling a mental list of all the names she wished to call Tony Stark when next she saw him, and it was a very long list indeed.

She had already taken out every camera that she knew of in the halls, but hesitated to put aside the can of spray paint she still held in her hand. The stepladder and the extra masks were lost to her, abandoned in the common room, but a dose of spray paint to the eyes of an attacker might hinder even an Asgardian god, at least temporarily.

Abruptly the doors all slammed shut at once as she was making her way to the point farthest from the elevator and the stairwell, and in the sudden silence she tripped slightly, catching herself against the wall with a quiet thump.

"I can hear you, Mrs. Coulson," said Jarvis from a speaker nearly directly above her head, and she knew that she would never again be able to watch anything involving robots without feeling the frisson of fear that ran through her at that moment.

"They are coming to collect you," he said. "Please remain where you are."

She had once told Skye that she liked following the rules and doing what was expected of her, and she almost couldn't remember what it had felt like to be that woman. Jemma had followed orders to her detriment, and had no intention of ever making the same mistake again. Where once she had trusted her colleagues and superiors in nearly every way, she now gave absolute trust to only a handful of people, and she could count them on one hand: Phil, Natasha, and Clint.

Her determination not to blindly follow orders didn't change the fact that it was futile to run. She would only exhaust herself and raise her blood pressure unnecessarily, and panic was doing that well enough for her. She only wished that Tony had designed the floor plan so that the halls had corners and nooks, instead of being laid in a kind of sinuous line that never entirely hid anyone.

She leaned back against the wall, clenching the can of spray paint in one hand. "Jarvis?"

"Yes, Mrs. Coulson?"

"May I see the stars, at least?"

There was a silence, and in the distance she heard the sound of one door opening and closing, and the tromp of booted feet.

"Of course," Jarvis said, and one of the iron curtains respooled itself, revealing inky indigo sky and stars the likes of which New York City had not seen for decades.

She didn't have the emotional reserves to be surprised when Ward rounded the corner. He shrugged when their eyes met, but from his stance and his grip on his gun she knew that they were now on very different sides.

"I broke bread with you," she said rather despondently, the hours she had spent reading Homer and Greek mythology as a child suddenly rushing back. "We've shared salt."

He had also snatched her from the sky, risking his own life to save hers. He had kept her afloat in the ocean as they waited for rescue, had played board games with her and the others during their downtime, had seen her in her robe during emergency mission briefings, and had once made her tea when he found her in the kitchen in the middle of the night. She might not have accorded him absolute trust, but she wouldn't have hesitated to turn her back on him.

"Don't make it any worse on yourself, Simmons," he replied, not understanding or not caring what she was referencing. He looked tired, and she supposed she could understand that. Betrayal must take a toll on a person.

"Come now, Ward," she said softly. "Just yesterday you attended my wedding. If you must take me prisoner, at least call me the right name."

He almost looked disgruntled at that. "I don't want to hurt you, Jemma."

She believed him. He would hand her over to people who would like to hurt her or use her (for Grant Ward, unlike Jemma, still followed orders), but he would prefer not to hurt her himself. Whether it was because he had some fondness for her, or whether he was morally opposed to striking a pregnant woman, that she was unsure of.

"You've been undercover a very long time, haven't you?"

For a long moment he didn't answer her. "Yes," he finally said, curtly. "If you come quietly, I won't need to restrain you."

"Very well," she replied, taking a step closer to him. She kept the hand holding the spray paint angled behind her back. He might have already noticed it, but he was so uncomfortable in that moment that she took the calculated risk that he had overlooked it entirely. He still underestimated her- she could practically feel that fact in her bones. He might have read her medical file, and doubtless he still remembered the way she had thrown him outside the house in Lima, but she would bet her life on the fact that he still saw her as the Jemma who couldn't pass her field assessments.

Her guess was confirmed by the flicker of relief in his eyes when she stepped forward without a fight. "We need you, Jemma," he said earnestly. "A biochemist of your caliber would be welcome in our labs."

"Who is we, exactly?" she asked, less interested in the answer than in keeping his eyes up and away from her hands.

"Hydra," he replied, and the answer made no sense to her. Hydra was dead and gone, Hydra had died with the rise of SHIELD, and Ward was too smart, much too smart to become entangled in the dregs of an organization that no longer existed.

"Hydra?" she asked in disbelief, stopping in her tracks. "_The_ Hydra?"

"Cut off one head," he said simply, leaving the rest of the statement unspoken.

She took another step toward him, and now they stood only a foot apart, at most. "You saved my life once."

"I can save it again."

She sighed slightly. "No, thank you," she said with sincere regret, and in the seconds it took for him to give her a quizzical glance, she whipped her hand up and delivered a stream of black paint directly into his eyes.

He screamed and lashed out, cursing, and without even considering her actions she ducked and bolted away, muscle memory from the long hours with Natasha keeping her away from his grasping hands. There was a moment when she felt his fingers skim over her sweater, but she slipped from beneath his hand with an agility she hadn't thought she still possessed (and she couldn't think now about the baby, she couldn't consider how this kind of activity was not at all advised in any trimester of pregnancy, she could only run).

The door to the stairwell opened at her touch, and it wasn't until she had dashed through it that it slammed shut behind her.

She hesitated briefly, debating whether it would be best to go up or down. Down would lead her to Lola, but that would require traversing nearly sixty flights worth of stairs, and encountering any number of enemy agents on her way. There was no guarantee that the floors above would be free of hostiles, and her one weapon was now abandoned in the hall next to Ward.

But Bruce- Bruce was somewhere above, most likely, though whether he was in his more reasonable form at that moment was an unknown factor.

Footsteps rang out far below in the stairwell, and that decided her. She went up.

* * *

There was a sudden gunshot in the darkness, and then a multitude followed as Phil pulled Maria down onto the floor with him, surrounded by the shouts of infuriated and injured agents.

"An army, you said?" he hissed into her ear.

"I didn't think they had breached headquarters!" she hissed back, and they both flattened themselves further against the floor as the greenish glow of the emergency lighting came up. "He doesn't have the fucking scepter, this shouldn't be possible. I thought he had mercenaries or some shit."

It was a pity that they had both been in the center of the room when it had gone dark. He could see, just barely, the figures of Loki's confederates as they moved confidently through the room, dropping the unprepared as they went. Judging by the sounds outside of the hub, this same scene was being played out all over the building.

All over the world, even. It would explain how he had hit so many different locations with such ruthless efficiency. Perhaps his contact with Dorian's department had in reality been contact with a far larger conspiracy. The implications of that were staggering, so much so that to consider them at that moment would only endanger his own life, and Maria's.

Provided, of course, that Maria was not operating as a double agent herself. He had to trust that she couldn't have become Fury's right hand while hiding a secret agenda. SHIELD might be a large, sprawling organization (obviously too large, and too sprawling), but when it came to the people he kept close, Fury had an uncanny ability to winkle out secrets. Phil would just have to trust that she would have his back, just as she would have to trust him.

Her hand clamped down onto his shoulder abruptly, and in the dim light he saw her jerk her head toward the central work station. They were only a few feet from it, but surrounded as they were he doubted that he could give her the cover she needed if a firefight broke out while she was initiating whatever security protocol she found necessary.

Instead, she pressed her hand against the underside of the station, feeling around the lip of the counter space for a moment before flexing her fingers against some unknown switch. A panel slid open soundlessly, and she gestured for him to precede her inside.

He found a ladder lit by the same green lights, and he climbed down as quickly as he possibly could while keeping his movements quiet. At the top of the ladder Maria secured the panel back into place before following him.

"I'm just going to state the obvious here," he said once they were both securely on firm ground. "This was _not_ on the building plans."

"What did you expect from a building designed by Howard Stark?" She turned down the right hand corridor without hesitation. "To my knowledge, only three people know about this level, and you are now officially one of them."

"I'm honored," he said dryly, scanning the doors as they passed. Plain and unmarked, with absolutely no indication of what might occur on this floor.

Then again, if only two other people knew of its existence- and since one of those people was obviously Maria, the other could only be Fury- perhaps it was simply an emergency exit.

"So, explain to me how you knew that he was gathering an army, but not that he had stashed it in the middle of our very own operation," he asked, in a tone that the uninitiated might mistake for patience. They were safe for the moment, but above them what appeared to be SHIELD's very own civil war raged, and he hadn't a clue what that might mean for Stark Tower. Generally he would be inclined to think that Stark vetted his people too carefully to allow anyone dangerous to slip through the cracks, but he would have once thought the same about SHIELD.

"We really only received confirmation in the last twelve hours or so." She cut him a sharp glance. "Have you ever come home from a party only to find Fury waiting for you, in the dark, in your living room? Because I have, and it sucks."

"What a pity for you."

Her jaw tightened, but she kept up her brisk pace. "Our intel told us what we had suspected- that Loki is collaborating with the Clairvoyant."

Phil hadn't given the name more than a passing thought for over a year. "What made you believe that?"

She raised a brow. "He- or she- completely dropped off the map after you disappeared," she said bluntly. "For the longest time Fury and I wondered if _you_ were the Clairvoyant- and then, of course, you showed up and busted one conspiracy right open."

"Hardly proof of my innocence," he noted.

"No, but between Romanov and Barton's staunch support, and the way you dote on your wife, we were fairly certain that you were clean." She shook her head slightly. "You as the Clairvoyant- it seemed wildly out of character, but we couldn't ignore the timing."

"Nor should you have," he admitted as they approached the end of the hall.

"Fury sends his congratulations, by the way," she said as she punched in a complicated code to unlock the door. "He might be a manipulative jackass, at times, but he is happy for you."

"He won't be so happy when Clint and Nat hand in their actual resignation letters." That they were no longer agents of SHIELD was more an understanding than fact; like Phil, they had been waiting for things to die down.

She locked the door after them, leaving them in a shadowy, cavernous room. "You really think you're going back to Peru, Phil? Loki's infiltrated SHIELD, _again_, and you're still planning to waltz back to South America with your wife and turn a blind eye to the weirder part of the world?"

"Yes." He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms. "I'm going to help you mop up this mess, and then I'm through. You might not have known about one rotten department, or whatever the hell this is-"

He waved his hand toward the ceiling. "-but Jemma and I are done with this organization, and obviously we're not the only ones."

"Captain America would be very disappointed with you, Phil," Fury said from the shadows, and Phil wasn't even the slightest bit surprised.

"Oh, I think Captain Rogers would understand my position rather well," he replied bitterly. "He might have volunteered for his procedure, but I don't think he would approve of SHIELD's current stance on medical experimentation- and before you remind me that you had no clue about Jemma, allow me to remind you that you, personally, put me through the wringer."

"Hell," Fury drawled in annoyance, and a light suddenly lit up the room from the center. "One of these days I'm going to put you in the same room with Rogers, and once you get through being a fanboy I'm sure you'll have a discussion about ethics the likes of which has never been seen."

He gestured toward the other two chairs that surrounded, of all things, a card table. "We're a bit old-school at the moment. Take a seat."

"Not concerned about what's happening upstairs?" Phil asked, remaining standing. "What about the other SHIELD facilities, Nick?"

_What about Stark Tower?_, he wanted to ask, the strip of gold encircling his ring finger seeming heavier than ever. "Where are the Avengers?"

"I tried to get in contact with them, and Stark's AI blocked every attempt," Fury replied bluntly. "Sit _down_, Phil. You know Stark; he's probably already got the building under lock and key. I'm more concerned about the reports coming in from everyone else."

He placed a tablet on the table and angled it toward them, brushing through stills from a variety of security feeds. Phil recognized the Triskelion, the Fridge, the Box, and several dozen other buildings- as well as the familiar grounds of the operatives academy. The same mayhem raging upstairs was present on these photos as well, though in the case of the academy a large part of the hostile force looked to be invading, rather than already present.

"'Out of the shadows and into the light'," Fury quoted. "That was the message that hijacked my computer before power was cut. Loki didn't need to convert or hire an army; he found the one that was waiting under our very noses." To say he looked irritated would be an understatement, and Phil thought he saw a good bit of shame as well.

"Would I be correct in guessing that the Clairvoyant turned out not to be a psychic, but someone working within SHIELD?" Phil asked, scrolling through the pictures for a second time. "With a rather high security clearance?"

"That is likely," Maria admitted. "We hadn't considered the possibility until we were forced to suspect you, but once you were cleared the idea still had merit. And seeing as my assistant shot a man in cold blood not fifteen minutes ago, we're obviously looking at a deeply entrenched conspiracy."

"And here we are, cooling our heels in the secret basement," Phil commented dryly. "Hail the conquering heroes."

The lack of communication with Stark Tower worried him. It could very well be protocol for this kind of situation, but without knowing for a fact he felt on edge. It made sense to stay and resolve the situation in house before rushing off into the street; for as long as this complex was compromised, the entire city (a city still crippled by lack of power) was compromised.

It still felt wrong. Stark would have programmed Jarvis to let SHIELD through. Fury's call should have been sent to a glorified answering machine, at the very least.

"You trust May, don't you?" Fury said with a quirk of his brow. "Because I set the Cavalry loose on the unsuspecting above. When I left she had already gathered a team and was subduing the western quadrant."

"She hates being called that," Phil said with a small sigh.

"Tough."

There was a quiet creak from above, and a vent cover dropped to the ground with a clang. "Don't shoot," Clint said as he climbed out of the air vent, covered in dust and spiderwebs. "And don't ask how I know about this place. The answer is stunningly obvious if you consider it for longer than ten seconds."

"Jarvis told you that Fury called?" Phil asked, his worry taking on a sharper edge.

"Funny thing," Clint replied conversationally, his expression not at all amused, "Jarvis told me an hour ago that _Phil_ needed me here. Then, after the shooting started, I ran into Nat in the halls, and she too received a message that her presence was requested." He leaned back against the wall, brushing cobwebs off of his shirt. "Perhaps I'm paranoid, but I'm sensing a conspiracy."

"Shit." Fury mused on this for a moment, then cut a fierce glance at Phil. "I need you here, Coulson. We'll deal with Stark later."

"No, we deal with this problem now," Clint said cooly. "Because not only are there a number of innocent people trapped in that building, there is also what one might call a fuck ton of dangerous equipment spread throughout the entire tower. If that building is taken, it won't be easy to get it back, and you _know_ that it's important from a tactical perspective. Loki tried to take it once. He'll try to take it again."

"He's right," Maria said quietly. "God only knows what Stark has stashed away."

"And Pepper's laid in enough emergency supplies that they could hole up for months before feeling the pinch." Clint looked around the room. "So, will Phil and I have to go back out through the vents, or is there a quicker exit?"

Fury grumbled impressively, but ushered them into yet another tunnel. "Keep straight until it dead ends, then take the right-hand turn. There is an armory to the right of the exit. I will not be pleased if either of you die on me, so keep that in mind."

"At least the Guest House is out of commission," Phil muttered as they jogged briskly down the hall, and Clint barked out a laugh.

"Only imagine what kind of havoc Jemma is wreaking right now. If she can flood a bunker in the desert, God only knows what she could do in Stark Tower."

Havoc was good, havoc meant that she was alive and well, though not at all safe. Phil would concentrate on the idea of Jemma victorious in war, and ignore the alternative.

* * *

Jemma was well and truly sick of stairs by the time she was halfway to the penthouse. Her calves were cramping, but she didn't dare stop, not when she could hear the echo of someone else's footsteps following her up the endless stairs. They didn't seem to be in any hurry to catch up, which she supposed made sense- where was she going to go, after all? At some point she would reach the last flight of steps, and then she would be at a dead end.

"You could just stop, you know," her follower said from below, his voice echoing off the walls. "Easier for everyone, and you're probably pretty tired at this point, right?"

She made no answer, just pressed on.

Five floors below the top level she came across an unexpected sight: a Hulk-sized hole where the door had been. She slipped through the gaping hole quietly and took the halls at a run, biting her lip at the pain in her legs as she followed the path of destruction. Not the safest decision, perhaps, but she would be damned if she meekly continued up those stairs to a locked door and an assailant coming at her from behind.

The Hulk was not pleased with the current state of security, that much was obvious. It looked as if Jarvis had played the same door slamming trick with him, because the farther she ran down the hall, the more doors she found ripped from their hinges and thrown to the floor in pieces. She wove through the destruction before ducking into a storage room on her right, scanning the shelves for a makeshift weapon.

Nothing. Towels, linens, and pillows, all tumbled from the shelves onto the floor, and she heard a quiet curse from farther down the hall as her stalker reached the landing. Legs shaking from exertion, she picked her way through the mess and crawled behind a mound of sheets onto the lowest shelf. She forced her ragged breathing to slow as the footsteps in the hall came closer, detouring briefly into each open room as he came to it.

She heard when he stepped into the storage room, and the moment of absolute quiet that followed as he presumably scanned for signs of life seemed to last an age. Finally he continued on, and she resisted the urge to make an audible sigh of relief. She would have to move from this spot eventually- the cameras would have caught her, and he would only have to check in with his superiors to get her location- but she stayed still for the moment, listening to his progress down the hall.

She had to wonder, though, where everyone was. It was a Monday, and that should have meant halls swarming with people on nearly every level. Had the call for evacuation been given on every floor except for the fifty-first, or were the invaders efficient enough that they managed to secure their hostages while she had been taking out the cameras on her floor?

There was a yell from the hall outside, and the undeniable sound of a fight broke out. The new adversary was not the Hulk, as far as she could tell in her dark, quiet corner, but someone else entirely.

"_Shit_," the newcomer cursed in a very familiar Scottish accent, his voice filled with pain, and she immediately scrambled out of her fortress, instinctively grabbing a pillow on her way out of the room.

A pillow to the head was far from lethal, but it was quite distracting. As the man in fatigues turned, Skye's well-aimed icer bullet lodged in his back.

There was a moment of silence after he had fallen, as the three stared at each other wide-eyed.

"A pillow, Jem?" Fitz asked, raising a brow. A steady drip of blood trickled from his nose, and his lower lip had been split open. "Really?"

"It worked, didn't it?" She ran a hand through her tumbled hair, edging around the fallen soldier. "We need to run, the cameras-"

"EMP," Fitz said quickly as Skye wrapped her in a sudden hug. "We're clear on this floor."

She sagged against the wall when Skye released her, fatigue hitting her in a quick burst. "Hulk is here somewhere- and others will come-"

"Sit down," Skye said firmly, pulling her back into the storage room and pressing her gently into a pile of pillows. "Take this, you're dehydrated." She thrust a bottle of water at Jemma and then dug through her bag, pulling out a bar of chocolate. "Eat that. It has almonds in it; it's almost nutritious."

Jemma laughed faintly at that, not even bothering to debate nutritional value. It was just a cheap bar of chocolate, the kind you could pick up at any petrol station, but it tasted nearly as good as the chocolate filled pastries she had eaten in Manaus so many months ago. That was a good memory, and she clung to it as she slowly ate each square. Phil had been so kind as they strolled down the shady streets, passing through pools of sunlight between each tree. The stories he had told to distract her as they ate- and she had known even then that they were a distraction, and had silently thanked him for it- had given her a better understanding of his wit and humor than she had ever gained on the Bus. The taste of chocolate brought that all rushing back, for all that it had been bittersweet on her tongue at the time.

"Thank you," she told Skye once she finished the bar, the half-full bottle of water in her hands. "We still need to move."

Skye hesitated. "Are you okay?"

It was a valid question. Jemma was tired and sore, and she suspected that she was beginning to feel the symptoms of shock (because of Ward, who had been her rescuer before betraying her, and a part of her still wondered if she had just blinded not a double agent, but a _triple_ agent, and she suspected that the thought would haunt her for months), but she didn't think that she would miscarry.

Not that she knew what that would feel like. She was half-tempted to tell the other two to turn their backs so that she could pull down her pants to check for spotting, but decided she would really rather not know, not when they were still stranded in the middle of enemy territory. "I'm fine," she answered firmly, and stood, proud when she managed to do so without a wobble. "Do you have another EMP, Fitz?" she asked him. "The lack of cameras will draw them here soon enough, but perhaps if we manage to make it to the penthouse we could barricade the door and hold them off. Tony will have weapons stashed somewhere on that level, and-"

She stopped, taking in their concerned faces. "I'm fine," she said again, worrying the label on her water with nervous fingers. "We need to go."

"You're right," Skye said quietly. "And your idea is sound. Let's go."

Skye made her wait a flight of stairs below the top level while Fitz took out the cameras above, making their way to him as he quickly rewired the panels which connected Jarvis to the doors on the top level.

"There," he said with satisfaction as they closed themselves in. "They'll have to take a battering ram to it to get in."

The top floor was empty, and mercifully so. Skye pulled Jemma down the hallway, glancing into every door they passed until she found a bedroom. Not small, by any means, but it lacked the decadence Jemma would have expected out of the master, and she allowed Skye to push her onto the bed. "Take a nap," Skye said, as if that was in any way a reasonable idea. "We'll finish securing the floor."

"We're under siege and you want me to take a nap?" Jemma asked in disbelief, nonetheless tempted. "I don't think that is a very good idea."

"Then lie down." Skye shrugged. "Baby's been put through a lot of stress. Give it a break."

She left the room at a brisk pace, leaving Jemma sitting on a very fine eiderdown that was practically begging her to lie down and roll herself into a very happy, sleepy bundle.

"Don't be an idiot," she told herself firmly. "I'm stronger than this."

"Yeah, you're not," Skye said, appearing abruptly in the door with another comforter and several pillows in her arms. "If you won't sleep on the bed, at least catch a few Zs in the closet."

"The closet?"

"Yeah. It's kind of safer, right?" Skye pulled open the closet door and dumped her armload on the floor. "Seriously, Jem. We could be here for hours, or even days. Take a nap."

"This is not a good idea," Jemma said with a sigh as she stepped into the closet and arranged her makeshift bed in the darkest corner. "You won't leave me?" she asked Skye quietly, keeping her gaze carefully averted.

"Hell, no. AC would rip me apart, quite literally, and I don't leave friends behind." Skye touched her arm lightly. "If we have to run, later, we need you on your feet." Her gaze was solemn and direct. "Maybe you haven't looked in a mirror, lately, but I am telling you that you need to lie down."

Jemma stared at her for a moment. "I will after I use the loo."

"That I will allow."

In all honesty she did have to use the loo, which coincidentally allowed her a chance to check the inside of her underwear. Not one spot of blood, which felt like a small miracle. She had to concede that Skye had a point- one glance in the mirror revealed a Jemma who was too pale for comfort, her brow furrowed. She certainly felt exhausted, her legs shaking as she swayed slightly from side to side.

The dark of the closet was soothing after the adventure of the evening. It had only been two hours, maybe three, at most, since she had left the lab, but it felt as if it had been an entire day.

All was quiet in her small corner of an increasingly unsafe world, and she slept uneasily as the battle raged on below, waking at intervals as her legs cramped in protest.

Finally Skye shook her awake, her body backlit by the early morning sun streaming into the room behind her. "Still safe," she said quickly, though she looked ill at ease. "Can you take a watch? Fitz just woke up, and I'm about to drop."

"Gladly."

Skye curled up onto the bed as Jemma left the bedroom, heading down the corridor on remarkably steady legs. A quick glance around the main room revealed that the entrances had been barricaded with every bit of furniture available. Two days ago she had been married in this room, and now she might well die in it.

Fitz nodded his head wearily at her. "Hell of a morning, Jem."

There wasn't much she could say in response to that, so she turned to stare out of the windows.

It was, at least, a beautiful sunrise.


	28. Lilium columbianum

"_Hold your tongue!" cried the Tiger-lily. "As if you ever saw anybody! You keep your head under the leaves, and snore away there, till you know no more what's going on in the world, than if you were a bud!"_  
-_Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There_, Lewis Carroll

Skye woke shortly before noon, accepting a cup of coffee from Fitz with a yawn before seating herself in front of the computer that sat in solitary splendor near the windows. "Find anything?" she asked Fitz, who nodded and began rattling off a string of complicated code as Jemma left the room.

She had already taken stock of the contents of the kitchen and the attached bar- it was probably sacrilege to even contemplate making a Molotov cocktail out of top-shelf liquor, but Tony wasn't exactly hurting for funds- and now she made her way back to the master bathroom. She avoided even peeking into the closets and drawers of the bedroom itself (she did not want to know what toys, if any, played a part in Tony and Pepper's sex life), but rifled through the bathroom cabinets with abandon. She found what she was looking for almost immediately: hairspray.

Lots of hairspray, actually. There were several different brands in the cabinets, and she gathered a half dozen cans into her arms. There had been a stash of cigarette lighters in the bar; between the two items, they now had torches. Fitz had also found several guns in the workshop on this level, as well as a pile of sturdy iron rods that would pack quite a blow if swung with enough force.

Their enemies might have automatic weapons and any number of impressive incendiary devices, but sometimes makeshift weapons worked just as well.

Skye was typing away furiously when Jemma re-entered the main room. She was muttering furiously under her breath, her eyes fixed on the screen. She spared her a glance when Jemma unloaded her haul onto one of the counters. "They're good," she said grimly, then smiled. "I'm better."

Jemma began pulling ingredients for sandwiches out of the fridge as the other two continued with their current projects. Fitz looked to be building a new dwarf out of scrap metal and copper wire, and he was concentrating utterly on the intricate work.

"Yes, yes, yes," Skye muttered faintly from the corner, her typing increasing in speed. "I am going to fucking box you in, you fucking bastards."

They continued in this vein for quite a while, long after Jemma had finished eating herself, the plates of food she placed beside her friends still untouched. It was, perhaps, closer to two in the afternoon, when Skye's continually hunched shoulders were an almost painful sight, that their relative peace was disturbed.

The door burst inward, sending a rain of now chunked and shredded wood and plaster over the majority of the main room. At initial impact Jemma had automatically dropped to her knees underneath a counter, and from the corner of her eye she saw Skye aim a gun at the gaping hole in the wall in one fluid movement.

What came through the remnants of the doorway was not an emissary of Hydra- and Jemma realized suddenly, in that moment, that she had never told Fitz and Skye about Ward- but Bruce's greener, bulkier counterpart.

Jemma uncurled herself slowly from her position, taking a few casual steps toward the door. "Hello," she said with a smile, catching a glimpse of Skye's concerned frown. "I was wondering where you might be."

Hulk watched her approach, his expression difficult to read. "HULK UPSET BY BAD COMPUTER."

"I didn't like the slamming doors, either," she replied, stopping about ten feet from him. "Are you hurt?"

"HULK OKAY. HULK SMASH BAD MEN."

"I'm very pleased to hear it."

"Jemma," Fitz whispered behind her, "are you sure you want to get so close?"

"I'm fine." For the moment. There wasn't much they could do against the Hulk, if he should decide that they were annoyances to him. Better to try and sway him to their side, if at all possible. "Hulk is our friend. Aren't you?" she asked him, giving him her best encouraging smile.

"FRIEND," Hulk said in an almost musing tone, tilting his head slightly to the side. "FRIEND," he said again, more decisively. "HULK PROTECT LITTLE MOTHER."

She resisted the urge to frown and say something about how she wasn't just a vessel, reminding herself that anything that kept Hulk calm and on their side was a winning strategy. "That's very kind of you," she said as he turned around and sat down, blocking the entrance. "Can I get you anything?"

"HULK FEED OFF ANGER. HULK SIT AND THINK ABOUT HIS ANGER."

"You are batshit crazy," Skye whispered almost frantically to Jemma as she made her way back to the others. "I will be in therapy over this for years. _Years_, Jemma."

"I think most people would benefit from a bit of therapy," Jemma said practically. "And now that we have Hulk, we're even safer than we were a few minutes ago. I'm not seeing the problem, here."

"Because you weren't trying to think of ways to explain to Coulson that you watched the Hulk swat his pregnant wife against a wall and did nothing to stop it." Fitz looked as pale as Skye. "You're a certified loon, Jem."

She shrugged. "I think this is an all's well that ends well kind of situation." She peered over Skye's computer at the scrolling code. "Any progress?"

"I have to play catch-up, now, but I'm almost there." Skye shook out her arms and shoulders, eyeing the Hulk warily. "He's bigger than I thought he would be."

Jemma regarded her friend- presently greener than was the norm, but sitting as still and as quietly as Bruce generally did- with a fond eye. "Is this the kind of moment when 'that's what she said' would be applicable?"

Skye snorted a startled laugh, and began to giggle as her typing picked up speed. "Yes," she said as firmly as she could manage through laughter, and Fitz regarded the two of them with a quizzical look.

"Now you decide to bond over bad girl shenanigans?" he asked in disbelief. "Now?"

"Oh, Fitzy," Skye replied with a melodramatic sigh. "Jemma has become more of a bad girl than I ever dreamed possible."

* * *

It had taken them nearly all night to make their way to Stark Tower. The tunnels had spat them out forty blocks away from the building, and then it was a hike on foot through dark neighborhoods, ducking into even darker corners whenever someone came their way. It was sunrise by the time they made it to their destination, and the sun rose over deserted, bleak streets.

Phil wasn't sure what he had been expecting at Stark Tower- armed men and locked doors, perhaps- but he had not been expecting a swearing Tony Stark pounding against the doors of his own building, promising a multitude of suffering upon the unfortunate Jarvis. The pieces of his Iron Man suit were in a pile on the pavement, lifeless.

"Problems?" Clint asked in a suspiciously civil tone, and Tony rounded on them furiously.

"Jarvis has been _hacked_." He looked personally betrayed, as if this was a conscious decision that Jarvis had made. "The suit won't work, the doors are locked, and I am pretty sure that I just saw one of the floor polishers chase a man through the lobby."

"Tony's Tower of Terrifying Terrors," Clint muttered. "You would have wired the carpets into the system if that were a possibility."

Tony gave them a sullen stare.

"The carpets?" Phil asked in disbelief. "Tony, is there anything in that building that isn't a hazard?"

"Well," Tony began in a defensive tone, "there's-"

He paused. "Well."

"This would be hilarious in any other situation," Clint said. "Do the toilets have defensive capabilities? Do the stairs turn into a giant slide? Should we worry that the carpets have electrocuted someone?"

"It has safeguards." Tony sighed. "Everything had safeguards."

A misnomer, as far as Phil was concerned. "Is there a back entrance?"

"Not exactly."

Phil swore in response to this, his tumbling, jumbled epithets concerning the Stark line catching all of them by surprise. Tony flushed a deep red, his fists clenching, and Clint stepped between them, hands held out. "We have enough problems without having a rumble on the sidewalk." He glanced to his right. "Such as the guys coming at us with guns."

There were five to their three, but even with Tony's suit out of commission the odds were against the incoming force. Clint dropped two before he had even finished speaking, and the remaining three followed quickly. One man made the mistake of coming after Phil with a shark-like grin on his face, apparently having singled him out as the weakest of the group. While it was true that Phil was no longer in the same prime of life that Clint and Tony enjoyed, long years of experience combined with a fierce determination to make his way to Jemma's side more than made up for any physical disadvantage. The grinning man fell like a stone, unconscious before he even realized that he had been outmatched.

Phil pulled a slim key card from one of the man's many pockets, and swiped it through the panel next to the front door. The light changed to green as Tony spluttered.

"They're issuing key cards to my damn building?" he said in near disbelief. "They hacked my system and now they're issuing keys to goons with big guns? Fuck these guys; I'm going to toss every single one of them off the top of this building."

The interior of the lobby was quiet, other than Tony's incessant mumbled litany of profanities. Furniture was strewn across the floor and splintered into pieces. Near the bank of elevators blood was smeared against the floor and walls, though there were no bodies to be seen. The secondary hub that Jarvis was built around was accessible from this floor, but the doors had literally been welded shut. That left Tony's own master server, which- unfortunately- was located on the penthouse level.

"Stairs it is," Clint said with a sigh, opening the door to the stairwell. "Just think how lovely and toned our thighs and calves will be after this."

They were met with seven different strike teams on their way up the first thirty flights of stairs, all of whom quickly regretted their attempt to take on a pissed-off Tony Stark and his equally pissed-off associates. Tony- who Phil believed was rethinking several architectural decisions- stopped cursing around level twenty, saving his breath for glowering and the pummeling of hostile forces.

The two-way radio on Phil's hip crackled when they were between the thirty-sixth and thirty-seventh floor, and Fury's voice, grainy and slightly out of tune, called his name with displeasure.

"Sir?" he answered automatically, grimacing at the polite title that escaped his mouth.

"It's fucking Hydra, Phil," Fury barked out unexpectedly. "This is no simple insurrection, this is a resurrection. We lost the Fridge, and the Hub."

They had all three paused on the stairs when Fury's transmission had come through, and now Phil exchanged a dark glance with Clint. The Hub was bad enough, but the loss of the Fridge might prove cataclysmic. "Any word on Loki's whereabouts?"

"Not yet. Bastard's probably sitting back and watching us scramble." Fury said something indistinct, as if to someone beside him, then his voice came back in full force. "We've secured HQ here, and the Triskelion and the Cube are also under SHIELD control. Hand locked down the Sandbox at the first sign of trouble, so it seems we still have that asset as well."

"Did Agent Blake make it out of the Hub?" Phil asked. "Have you heard from Sitwell?"

"Sitwell's still at the Triskelion, and Blake made it out of the Hub by the skin of his teeth. Have you found Stark?"

"He's frothing at the mouth," Phil replied in a mild tone, and Tony rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I'll contact you when we have the tower under control again." He ended the transmission with a more forceful jab of a finger than he had intended, and raised a brow when the other two merely stared at him. "Keep walking."

"I hate stairs," Tony muttered as they resumed their trek. "Fucking building codes."

As they passed the door to the fiftieth floor (and though Phil hadn't said it aloud, he was definitely echoing Tony's sentiments by that point), the lock quietly, but definitively, clicked. Tony reached out and tested the handle, and it moved easily under his hand, the door pushing open without resistance.

"Trap," Clint said shortly.

"Water and food," Tony replied tersely, and walked through the door. Clint and Phil exchanged a rueful glance, but followed him through. They couldn't afford to stop- and shouldn't, really, though their water reserves were low (Phil was not looking forward to the moment when the consequence for staying hydrated made itself known, and couldn't decide what would be worse: Tony grumbling about them desecrating his building by urinating on the stairs, or Tony using it as an opportunity to make size comparisons). If they stayed still for too long, their legs would cramp, and then it would be a real struggle to make it to the top. As it was, the three of them would not be walking easily the next day.

The door locked again behind them, and when Phil tested the lock it wouldn't budge, no matter how much force he exerted on it. "Thank you, Tony," he said calmly. "Being penned in like rats is a definite improvement."

"Fuck you, Phil." Tony disappeared into a room a short way down the hall as the other two men waited in tense silence, weapons at the ready.

Tony returned a few minutes later, bottled water and bags of trail mix in his hands, and a heavy-duty hammer in the crook of one elbow. "I can't believe I am dismantling my own damn building because of these jerks," he said, thrusting his haul into Clint's hands, disregarding his bow. "Stand back."

Tony attacked the lock with more rage than actual skill in that moment, sending the door handle clattering to the ground in pieces after five jolting blows. The door opened freely once more.

Tony used similar force on the lock that guarded the Avengers' floor, though that particular door took a great deal more effort to force open. It had been reinforced multiple times, and both Clint and Phil took their turns before the lock finally fell defeated to the ground.

There had been signs of a small scuffle on the fiftieth floor, but here there was actual destruction. Thick stripes of black paint smeared across the security cameras, and the windows were uniformly covered by metal security barriers.

"Ahh," Clint said with satisfaction, examining the new paint job. "Jemma was here."

It made sense, now that Clint had mentioned the possibility, and Phil examined the hall anew. If it was her work, then she had done this with the intention of barricading herself on what was arguably one of the safest floors in the entire building, and her first step had been to blind the enemy to her own movements. It was the kind of quick thinking he had come to expect from her.

"Mrs. Agent might have been here then, but she doesn't appear to be now," Tony pointed out as they searched Phil's apartment first, then moved on to Natasha and Clint's. "This floor is as quiet as a-"

He broke off suddenly. "It's quiet, that's all."

And so it was, until a quiet moan echoed down the hall, and they sprinted toward the source of the sound only to find Grant Ward sitting against the wall, his face a smear of black paint and tears. A can of spray paint lay six or seven feet away, and it was very clear _what_ had happened, though not necessarily _why_.

"Ward?" Phil asked, cautiously kneeling down beside him. "Report."

Ward's sightless eyes turned in his direction. "She blinded me, Coulson." He took in a breath. "I came to get Simm- to get Jemma out of the building, and she just took me out and ran. That was last night." His hands groped the floor around him. "I think the damage might be permanent."

There was a moment of silence at this. The scenario was not implausible- if she had been panicked enough, she might have taken aim at anyone who came up behind her unexpectedly.

But then, she would have had reason to do so, wouldn't she? Ward didn't have the clearance for this floor. Skye did, but she was the only non-resident who wasn't Tony or Pepper to have that privilege, and any person with legitimate access would have announced themselves to Jemma, rather than sneaking up on her from behind. The only way Ward could have accessed this floor was by force- and as the lock had been secure before they had smashed it to bits, that was not the case- or because whoever controlled Jarvis had let him pass. At some point Jemma had figured out that Jarvis couldn't be trusted, as evidenced by the way she had taken out the cameras. The moment Ward showed his face, she would have guessed at his duplicity.

Phil glanced at Clint, tilting his head slightly toward Ward, and Clint nodded in response. In seconds Clint had Ward pinned to the floor, and after a brief tussle had his wrists clasped in handcuffs.

"Who recruited you to Hydra?" Phil asked him quietly, keeping clear of Ward's legs. He might be blind, but that didn't make him defenseless. "Was it someone at the academy? Or was it later, after you became an agent?" He could feel his own legs beginning to seize up, and he stood, grimacing.

"Does it matter?" Ward replied coolly, dropping all pretense of innocence. "Don't you have more important things to do than question me? Jemma made it out to the stairwell before the door locked again. Who knows who has her now?"

"He does have a point," Clint said philosophically, and pulled a hank of rope from one pocket. "Why question him now? Let's just bind his ankles and dump him in a closet. We can interrogate him later."

And that was exactly what they did. They made a brief detour through the other rooms on that floor before resuming their journey upward. Clint looked as if he would comment on the situation- whether jokingly, or in commiseration, Phil was unsure- but something in his expression must have warned Clint off, because they hiked in silence.

It was very like the first half of their trek- they met soldiers at random and dispatched them, accumulating their own collection of bruises and cuts as they went. It was only as they reached the upper floors that they began to see signs of anyone other than Hydra. It would have been hard to miss the various signs of the Hulk's presence, starting with the large hole in the wall were a door had once been. They passed it by entirely, so close to their ultimate goal that it seemed ridiculous to stop then. The remaining flights of stairs were intact, despite the Hulk's weight, but portions of the railing had been twisted from their anchors and tossed aside.

"I think we found the princess," Clint said as they rounded the corner on the last flight of stairs, only to find the Hulk staring down at them contemplatively, his frame nearly filling the new hole in the wall. "Hey, big guy," he called. "What's up?"

"Is that Clint?" Phil heard Jemma ask from behind Hulk, and his heart fluttered as it skipped a beat. Poetic, to be sure, but damned uncomfortable in real life. "Would you let him by, please?"

Hulk seemed to be paying more attention to Phil, which was unnerving. "LITTLE MOTHER'S MATE."

Clint and Tony both snickered under their breath at that, and Phil charitably chalked it up to exhaustion fueled hysteria.

"May I see Jemma, please?" Phil asked cautiously as he climbed the last few steps to the landing, hearing the sound of footsteps behind Hulk. "I've been worried about her."

Jemma said his name just then, her voice so richly suffused with emotion that the utterance was practically a prayer. "Please, let him by," she begged, and Hulk turned toward the interior of the penthouse. "Anyone with Phil is safe. I-"

She squeaked, suddenly, the sound terrifying without context, and Clint and Tony bounded up the last few steps to join him. After what felt like an eternity, Hulk turned with an unharmed, if bewildered, Jemma in his hands, and held her out expectantly to Phil. He accepted her weight with arms already heavy with fatigue, but the relief that flooded him when presented with her warm, living self did away with the worst of it.

"WORKS TOO HARD," Hulk grumbled as he stood aside to let them enter, Phil still clutching Jemma against him. Her confusion passed quickly, and in its wake her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders and she pressed her face against the side of his neck. He could feel her lips brushing briefly against the skin above his collar before her nose settled against the same spot. Her breathing was noticeably shaky, but her hands, though firm against his back, did not clench.

"Fine," she murmured before he could ask, and he set her on her feet in a corner away from the others, their private moment covered by Tony and Skye's rapid conversation that was half techno-babble and half insults (the latter mostly contributed by Skye). "We're both fine, just a bit shaken up." She gave him a weak smile, looking a little teary. "Happy honeymoon."

She gave a small, choked sigh when they met in an embrace, his heavy vest a bulwark between them, and eagerly pressed her mouth against his when he wove his fingers into her tousled hair. She laughed suddenly as they parted. "Perhaps you can answer a question for me?" she asked, lifting a hand to touch the knot of his tie. "Why do you always wear a tie with kevlar?"

He opened his mouth to reply, and found himself at a loss. Because Agent Coulson wore suits, regardless of circumstances, that was why. He gave her a mock scowl. "Not to impress you with, obviously."

She smiled, her fingertips stroking against the patch of skin above his windsor knot, and leaned in to murmur softly in his ear. "If we weren't surrounded by people, and you weren't obviously about to drop, I would ask you to take me against the wall."

"Rain check?" he murmured back, receiving a delighted smile in return.

"Agent!"

They both turned toward the others, though he kept one hand pressed firmly against her back. It was as much to stay in contact with her as it was to keep him on his feet; now that they had stopped the endless climb, he could almost feel the floor swaying below him, as if he had stepped off a ship onto dry land for the first time in weeks.

"Blue Skies took control of the building _two hours ago_," Tony said in what was almost despair. "That equals at least twenty-five or thirty flights of stairs. We could have taken the elevator."

"Excuse me, I had more important things to do than check every security feed to see if the biggest ego in the world was somewhere in the building." Skye pulled her hair out of its elastic only to bundle it up again. "It took me a while to solidify my hold on Jarvis. You wouldn't have liked it very much if you had gotten on the elevator only to have it back in their hands. And I've been pinpointing their little nests all over the building."

She pulled up a set of floor plans on the screen, ignoring Tony's disgruntled look. "See, they've taken the secondary server on the main floor- though it's useless to them now, of course- but they've also set up a command post on the thirtieth floor. There were a bunch of smaller groups wandering around earlier, but a number of them seemed to find their way to the bottom of the main stairwell."

She raised a brow at them. "Been offering flying lessons, have we?"

"People do tend to topple right over railings if you put an arrow in them," Clint replied calmly. Jemma took a step closer to Phil at his words, and it took him a moment to realize that she had put her arm around his waist, the vest blocking that tactile sensation.

"Do you need to sit down?" she asked him in a whisper, and he shook his head.

"Wouldn't be able to stand up again."

She pressed her lips together in a frown, but whatever she might have said was interrupted by Skye's laugh.

"Oh look," she said, toggling to the security feed in the lobby, "May's here, and she looks pissed."

She did, indeed, as did the group of agents at her back, several of whom made short work of the welded door.

"Do either of you feel kind of like we could have stopped at the coffee shop down the street and been just as useful?" Clint asked consideringly. "I mean, we thought we were coming to slay the dragon, but it turns out we really just invaded the princess's stronghold."

"Fitz does make a lovely princess," Skye said dryly, tossing a crumpled paper ball at Clint. "And I believe I do feel a swoon coming on." She paused for effect before shaking her head. "Then again, no."

Phil leaned his head against Jemma's as the others continued to bicker playfully. Let May take care of the remnants of Hydra below; he was tapped out.

* * *

It took some time, but eventually it became clear that the building was once again safe- or as safe as it had ever been- and after confirmation from Fury that headquarters were secure and the power would shortly be restored to most of the city, Jemma pulled Phil resolutely onto the now functioning elevator. The floor they lived on might no longer have a lock, but the lock on their apartment door was sound, and Jemma intended to take care of Phil before he dropped.

"Don't you dare," she said sternly when he began to detour toward the fridge. "I will make you something in a minute. You need a hot bath before your muscles seize."

She pushed him, uncomplaining, ahead of her into the bathroom, ridding him of his vest and clothing as the water filled the tub. "Can I trust you not to fall asleep while I get you some food?" she asked him once he had settled into the water, and his eyes opened again to focus on her face.

"Don't take too long," he said, and in that moment he looked older than his years, and it broke her heart.

Natasha was sitting on their couch when Jemma entered the room, leafing through a magazine like she had just dropped by on a casual visit. A long, shallow scratch snaked down her neck and under the neckline of her shirt. Several large nylon bags lay on the floor, and Jemma gave her an inquiring glance.

"We're going to sleep here tonight," Natasha said with a shrug. "This floor isn't exactly secure, after all. Clint will be along later with Skye, Bruce, and Fitz."

A part of Jemma dearly wished to be alone, but a larger part of her was suddenly very relieved. Phil would rest easier, knowing that they were surrounded by allies, and so would she. "I don't think we have enough pillows for everyone," was all she said in response, and opened the fridge.

Phil was still awake when she re-entered the bathroom, though barely. "Eat this," she said firmly, kneeling by the side of the tub and holding the plate steady in one hand, placing the glass of water carefully on the rim next to him. "I brought you some aspirin, as well. And you don't need to worry about security, because Natasha and the others have decided to hold a sleepover in our living room."

He relaxed slightly and took a sandwich quarter. "They better not stay up all night playing Truth or Dare."

"Spin the Bottle might be the greater concern." She smiled and moved closer, arranging herself so that she could hold the plate and stroke his hair at the same time. "Thank you for coming to find me."

"Anytime." He quirked a small smile. "Though next time, perhaps you could try holing up on the tenth floor."

"I will keep that in mind."

She gave him a shoulder to lean on as he climbed out of the tub after the water cooled, catching the wince he tried to hide as he stood again. "I don't think you expected to take care of me like this for several more decades, at least," he quipped as he dried off, and she caught the note of uncertainty in his voice.

"We take care of each other," she reminded him, picking up a jar of liniment and nudging him into the bedroom. "You climbed, what, ninety flights of stairs, today? Clint and Tony didn't look that much better than you when we left. You're all going to be in bad shape tomorrow."

She pulled the comforter and top sheet back and pushed him gently onto the bed. "On your stomach, please."

Jemma pulled off her rings and placed them carefully on the bedside table. She was still wearing the dress shirt she had stolen from his closet the day before, and she rolled up the sleeves before twisting the lid off the jar, releasing the sharp smell into the air. "Tell me if I'm too rough," she said quietly as she began to rub the salve into his shoulders, working her way slowly down his body, observing him for any sign that she might have literally hit a nerve.

She thought he might actually be asleep when he suddenly said, "We found Ward."

Her hands slowed against one of his calves for the space of a second before resuming their previous rhythm. "And?"

"You did an excellent job incapacitating him." He didn't move to look back at her, but his tone was warm and sincere. "I informed May over the radio," he continued, a note of unease creeping into his voice. "She said she would make sure he was sent back to headquarters for treatment and questioning."

She nodded slowly, pressing her thumbs into the arch of one foot. "I wouldn't have thought that Ward would- I wouldn't have thought that of anyone on our team."

He was quiet for a moment. "I know," he said finally. "I didn't see that coming."

She worked in silence for a few more minutes, then touched him gently on the side of one hip. "Can you roll over? You can fall asleep after that, if you like."

"You have very good hands," he slurred sleepily after he rolled over with a small grunt. "I don't think I've ever told you that."

"I think you have, once or twice," she said in a musing tone, dropping a kiss on his knee before working the salve into the joint. "But I'm happy to be reminded."

"Not how I thought our honeymoon would go."

"A coup d'état by Hydra ranked fairly low on my list of possibilities, as well."

Despite his obvious exhaustion, he kept his eyes open and on her, a small smile on his face as she worked. "Wouldn't have climbed a skyscraper for just anyone, Jemma."

"I don't know about that," she replied with a laugh, leaning forward to kiss the tip of his nose. "But I doubt anyone else would be doing this for you." Her smile turned teasing. "And I'm full service, you know. Happy ending guaranteed."

He blinked, confused, but caught her drift quickly enough. "You don't have to."

"If you're still awake after I wash my hands, it would be a pleasure." She kissed him lightly. "I don't think you want this liniment on any very sensitive areas."

"That would definitely fall under adding insult to injury." He quieted and let her finish, eyes half-closed as she worked the salve into his chest, shoulders and arms.

He was still awake when she returned from washing her hands. "Don't feel obligated," he reiterated, but turned ever-so-slightly to face her as she tucked herself against his side. "Will you stay with me until I sleep?"

"I want to, and yes." She smiled. "You'll sleep better afterward. Doctor's orders."

"I really hope you don't mean a SHIELD physician," he said with a small groan. "Though I wouldn't put it past them."

"Oh, no," she replied cheerfully, her hand moving down to stroke him. "Doctor Jemma only prescribes this for very select patients." She kissed along his jawline before claiming his mouth again. "That would be you," she clarified unnecessarily a moment later. "In case there was any doubt."

"Wasn't in doubt," he sighed happily, his eyelids slipping shut as she continued.

She brought him over the edge quickly, smiling in satisfaction when he slipped into sleep with little more than a whispered utterance of her name, and carefully cleaned up the mess with the washcloth she had brought from the bathroom.

Now she showered, letting the hot water pound against her back as it washed away the dried sweat from long hours of exertion and panic. She dressed leisurely, pulling on a pair of yoga pants and an oversized sweater before wandering out into the living room, grabbing the jar of liniment after a moment of thought. Phil barely even stirred as she passed, his breathing even and deep.

Her living room floor was littered with air mattresses. Natasha stood behind the kitchen counter, stirring what smelled like spaghetti sauce on the stove as Skye and Fitz pulled glasses and plates out of cabinets. Bruce was already asleep on the mattress closest to the door, and Clint was face down on another.

He turned his head slightly to look at her as she approached. "I might be dying, Jemma."

"No, I don't think so," she said, patting him softly on the head, and pushed him so that he rolled over. "You'll have to ask Tasha nicely to help you apply this," she continued, holding up the jar, "but I will run you a bath if you promise not to drown yourself in it."

He groaned, but let her lead him into the second bathroom, leaning against the wall as she started the water. She left him to undress in peace, and made her way to Natasha. "Would you please make sure he doesn't kill himself?" she asked her softly, and Natasha nodded slightly, handing her the spoon.

They all ate quietly after Clint and Natasha returned, the former smelling strongly of menthol. Jemma topped her pasta with olive oil, black pepper, and parmesan, skipping the sauce entirely. She still felt rather queasy when faced with tomatoes in any form, but she appreciated the bite of pepper against her tongue as she slowly worked her way through a large portion of pasta. Her own fatigue was beginning to set in, now, as she sat still for the first time in what felt like hours, and she looked forward to crawling into bed beside Phil and sleeping the night away.

There was a knock on the door as they finished, and the sudden noise jolted Bruce awake. His skin seemed tinged with green for the briefest of moments, but he quickly stabilized, standing as Natasha pulled open the door.

She stood there for a moment, regarding the person beyond coolly.

After a few seconds, she smiled. "Hello, Steve," she said. "You always were late to a party."


	29. Thymus vulgaris

_I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,_  
_Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,_  
_Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,_  
_With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:_  
_There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,_  
_Lull'd in these flowers with dances and delight._  
-_A Midsummer Night's Dream_ 2.1.255-60, William Shakespeare

Phil Coulson woke up, and he regretted it. He was fairly sure that the last time he had made the acquaintance of several of the muscles now cursing his name had been in the academy, when he had been younger, stupider, and willing to throw himself at just about any immovable object on a dare.

In retrospect, it was really quite impressive that he had managed to live long enough to die on the helicarrier at all.

Still, despite the fact that he felt as if he had fallen down ninety flights of stairs, rather than climbed them, he knew that he could be feeling much worse. He tested his range of movement gingerly and found it acceptable, though he doubted that he would be able to pull a gun with the same quick reflexes that he had enjoyed for years.

Jemma, who had buried herself almost completely under the blankets, stirred as he slowly stood, wincing at the ache in his knees and hips.

"Phil," she murmured, her hand leaving the warmth of the covers to pat the space where he had been lying. He took a seat beside her as she pulled the covers back from her head, blinking at him blearily. "Steve Rogers is asleep on our living room floor," she informed him in a sleepy tone, then frowned. "Let me run you another bath. Do you hurt very badly?"

He took a moment to process her words, resting a hand lightly on hers. "Steve Rogers is asleep on our living room floor," he repeated slowly, and she nodded.

"Apparently he was putting out fires in Nebraska." She yawned and lifted her hands to try and smooth her tangled hair. "Are you hungry?"

Her casual manner broke him from his slight fanboy shock, and he leaned in to kiss her cheek. "Yes, but I'll take care of it." The night before was a bit hazy, but he was clear on the care she had given him, attending to more of his needs than had really been necessary (but appreciated. Without a doubt, appreciated). He was certain that the work she had put in was what allowed him to be on his feet at all this morning.

She fell back asleep as he left to take another bath, allowing the heat to soak into his bones as he washed away the lingering smell of menthol. Captain America was sleeping in his living room. He was torn between an almost unhealthy degree of excitement and a blasé attitude which he would have found incomprehensible just a year previous. The excited, fanboy side of him was slightly horrified. Steve Rogers had slept on his floor? _His floor?_ Granted, there was only one bed in the entire apartment, but if he had been awake he may well have offered it- though he certainly wouldn't have forced Jemma to sleep on a couch, and _she_ wouldn't have slept in a bed with a man other than her husband, and all in all it was for the best that he had been unconscious at the time.

The other part of him, which had gained some distance from obsession and which had been irrevocably changed under the Limean sun, was idly considering returning to Jemma and reciprocating the more intimate care that she had given him the night before.

He lingered long enough that the water grew cold, and as he began to dress Jemma joined him in the bathroom, her hair no less wild than it had been a half hour before. She brushed her teeth as he finished pulling on his clothes, then hopped up onto the bathroom counter before attempting to tidy her hair.

She was watching him with a fond, if curious, expression, and reached out when he drew closer. "That stubble was very intriguing," she admitted, rubbing her thumb against his now clean-shaven chin. "I don't think I've ever see you go so long between shaves."

"A beard is not my best look." He stepped between her knees and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her forward slightly until they fit snugly together. "You took very good care of me last night," he said softly, stroking her back. "Thank you."

She positively glowed in response, tightening her knees against his hips. "I've been taking notes," she replied teasingly. "Your caretaking techniques really are exceptional." She curved her hands around the back of his neck and drew him in for a kiss, and it was a sweet, quiet moment amidst the chaos that lay outside their apartment door.

There was a time for slow and tender just as there was a time for passionate and teasing, and they had enjoyed each other in multitude of ways along that spectrum. This was one of the gentler moments, made richer by her soft curves against him (softer, now, than when she had first bared herself to him, smiling and blushing and somewhat nervous as he brushed his fingertips lightly against one of her scars) and the delicate slide of her tongue against his.

It might have turned into something more than a kiss, but her stomach growled as his hand slipped under her sweater, and she pulled back with a sheepish smile. "Bacon," she explained, and she was right- someone was cooking breakfast, and suddenly he was starving.

He waited while she finished dressing, feeling absurdly that if he walked out the bedroom door without her he might somehow walk into his former life, the one in which he had tripped all over himself on first speaking with Steve Rogers. Jemma's presence was no guarantee of his good behavior, but like a good luck charm he kept hold of her hand, lacing his fingers through hers as they walked into the living room.

Captain America was flipping pancakes at his stove, and damn, life was really weird sometimes.

"Among the living, I see," Natasha said with a small smile. "Still."

Clint- who was stretched out on one of the air mattresses, evidently losing his shirt (quite literally) to Skye in a hand of poker, frowned at him. "I honestly did not expect to see you walking, today."

"Hey, AC," Skye said with a casual nod. "Don't mind Clint; he literally dragged himself across the floor to the bathroom this morning in the most dramatic fashion possible."

"I can walk," Clint interjected with a huff. "I just choose not to, at the moment."

The bickering had temporarily distracted him from their surprise guest, but when he looked back at the stove, piercing blue eyes met his.

"Dead, huh?" Steve asked him. He nodded at Jemma, giving her an earnest smile. "Ma'am."

Phil shrugged, and loosened his grip on Jemma's hand. "I got better."

Clint snorted. "You have been waiting to make that joke for _years_, haven't you."

"People kept going on about Tahiti this and Tahiti that," Phil replied, glad that his voice sounded calm and just a bit amused, betraying not a hint of his nervousness. "They gave me surprisingly few opportunities to slip in a little Monty Python."

Natasha and Clint shot Steve expectant looks, and he rolled his eyes in return. "Yes, I get the reference."

"I'm so proud," Natasha said approvingly, and pulled a small notebook out of a pocket, picked up a pen, and drew a line through something.

"You're still carrying that list around?" Steve pulled the pan off of the heat and moved over to Natasha, trying to peer over her shoulder. "You need to show me this list, Natasha. It's unnerving, trying to figure out what you consider a valid cultural reference and what not."

She clutched the notebook against her chest, giving him an unreadable look. "Making you guess is more enjoyable for me."

"I figured that part out," he muttered, and returned to the stove. "Breakfast is ready."

By the time he had finished eating, Phil had a new bit of trivia to add to his collection: Steve Rogers made excellent blueberry pancakes.

* * *

"_No_," Fitz said desperately, pacing the room as Skye stood still in shock. "Jemma just made a mistake, is all. Right, Jemma?" He faced her, his eyes imploring. "You panicked and misunderstood him. It was just an overreaction to- to stress."

Jemma shrank back reflexively into her seat, resisting the urge to draw up her knees against her chest. She might have thrown herself out of a plane and confounded the plans of a trickster god (twice), but somehow facing her friends' shock and disapprobation made her feel like a naughty five year old- and that was putting it kindly. "He said he was Hydra," she replied, hating the way she sounded as if she were pleading- and she was. "He was going to turn me in, Fitz. He said so, and I believed him."

"He was probably just going to sneak you out of the building," he snapped, and she flinched almost imperceptibly. It wasn't his tone, but-

No. It wasn't _Fitz_. Fitz had snapped at her before and she had snapped back without missing a beat, in years past. They might still be out of sync, but she could tell when Fitz was genuinely devastated, and she could see it in him now.

It _was_ the tone that had made her flinch. She couldn't remember the words, but she could remember struggling against hard hands, and someone using that same tone as they jabbed a needle into her thigh. The memory was overlaid with a multitude of similar ones, like layers of lace, and they flooded her with a suddenty that nearly took her breath away.

It was when she flinched that Skye finally spoke, and she bore a grave expression that Jemma had never seen on her face. "Don't yell at her, Fitz," she said quietly, and dropped heavily onto the opposite end of the couch from Jemma. "She did the right thing."

Fitz gaped at her. "The right thing? Ward's vision will never be the same, and she did the right thing?"

"Stop and think about it." Skye shook her head and curled her legs underneath her. "Jemma isn't an idiot, Fitz. You know that better than anyone, and you know that her instincts are sound." She picked at the hem of her sweater, looking absolutely miserable. "If he's innocent, SHIELD will clear him, but I'm with Jemma."

Fitz leaned back against the wall, silent as warring emotions crossed his face. "Shouldn't have yelled at you, Jem," he finally said in a quiet tone. "I'm sorry."

She patted the space between herself and Skye on the couch, taking in a deep breath as he crossed the room to sit down. "He saved my life once. I wouldn't have- not unless I was convinced."

They all glanced toward the door at the sound of a key in the lock, and Jemma smiled reflexively at Phil as he walked in the room. He looked as put together as ever, but his fatigue from the day before was still evident on his face.

"He made a confession?" Skye asked bluntly, her eyes narrowed.

"Yes." He dropped his keys onto the table and rubbed his forehead. "Not everything, but enough."

"What will happen to him now?" Fitz asked. Gone was the anger and disbelief; all that remained was defeat.

"He will continue to receive medical care, and counseling, and he will spend the rest of his life in a cell." Phil's words fell heavily amidst them, and Jemma noted the slight slump of his shoulders. They hadn't discussed Ward beyond his few words on the subject the night before, but she knew that it would weigh on him. Ward had been one of his, and Phil took care of his people.

"Counseling?" Skye asked, looking confused and a bit angry. "How kind."

Jemma watched as Phil shifted his weight, angling himself so that he faced slightly away from them. "There are reasons why counseling would be appropriate in Ward's situation," he said enigmatically, and walked into the bedroom.

After a moment she followed him, and he met her gaze as she shut the door. "Let's get rid of this, shall we?" she said softly, and began loosening his tie. "You don't need to tell me why," she said, casting a glance up at him as she drew the knot apart. "But knowing what little I do know about Ward, you were right to fight for counseling, and I'm proud of you."

He gave a small sigh as she laid the tie neatly on the dresser, and began shrugging out of his jacket. "It's such a waste, Jemma." He tossed it heedlessly onto a chair in an uncharacteristic move. "He won't tell us who recruited him, or how, but he let enough slip to know that he has been playing this game for as long as he's been with SHIELD- maybe since before the academy. He was just a kid."

He kicked off his shoes and sat on the bed, resting his head in his hands. He was moving slowly, today- just as Clint was, and Pepper had reported to Natasha that Tony was just as bad.

She patted his shoulder, then sat against the headboard. He didn't bother to stand; just crawled up the bed toward her and laid down, his head in her lap. "I failed him."

Her smile was bittersweet. "You can't save everyone, Phil." Not that such knowledge had kept him from trying, in the past. She undid the top two buttons on his shirt, and continued, stroking her fingers across his forehead. "No one saw this coming. He fooled everyone, from the academy on. There was no way that you could have known."

He nodded slightly, his forehead still creased, and shifted his position to wrap an arm around her thighs. "I nearly didn't fight for him," he admitted quietly, pressing his face against her legs. She let her hand rest lightly on the back of his head, waiting for him to continue. "He went after you."

"Better him than someone else," she replied pragmatically. "He underestimated me. He always has. Someone else might have been more cautious- and might not have cared about whether I was hurt in the process."

His arm tightened slightly around her legs, and after a moment of silence he spoke again. "Fury wants to move us."

"You," she corrected with a small smile. "I'm just part and parcel, now."

"No, you as well." He released her and sat up, placing an arm around her shoulders. "He wants to borrow Skye and Fitz from Stark, and send all of us to one of his secret bases for the duration."

"And why would he want to do that?"

"Because apparently the facility is top-notch." His lips brushed against her temple, and she snuggled closer to him. "And he's finally figured out that I am a lot easier to work with when the people I care about are safe."

"He's still hoping to keep you, when this is all over," she commented. "I-"

She paused, considering her words. "I can't work for SHIELD again, Phil," she finally said. "But if you've changed your mind, I won't be angry- though I would prefer it if you weren't on the front lines."

"I've been doing this job for so long that it's been easy to slip right back into it," he admitted. "But I've never been one to take the easy path."

"Quite the understatement," she said with a quiet laugh. "You always take the high road, husband."

He placed two fingers under her chin, and she willingly tilted her head up for a kiss. "When do we have to leave?" she asked when they parted, and he placed a kiss on the corner of her mouth before replying.

"In a few hours." He grinned and snagged her around the waist when she made to stand. "Wait, I'm not done kissing you, yet."

She laughed as she tried to wriggle out of his hold. "I'm not leaving another perfectly good wardrobe behind, Phil. I doubt that Fury's secret base stocks maternity wear." She let him pull her back for another kiss, one so thorough that she was almost shaking by the time he let her go. "Besides," she said, trying to calm her breathing, "Skye and Fitz need to pack, as well. Unless Tony is refusing to let them leave?"

"He grumbled," Phil said, stroking her stomach. "But the thought of getting his people into one of SHIELD's strongholds was too tempting. I wouldn't be surprised if he tries to plant a bug in one of Skye's earrings."

"Will it just be us?" she asked with a frown, "and for how long?" It occurred to her that 'the duration' might be longer than a few weeks or even a few months; given enough time, she would be in need of _someone_ who was experienced in childbirth.

"He said he would be sending a medical staff," he said after a moment. "And that he would vet them very carefully."

Jemma didn't have a great deal of faith in Fury's ability to vet anyone, at that point, but merely nodded in return. "Go tell Fitz and Skye," she said again, and kissed his cheek. "I'll start packing."

* * *

Phil relayed the news to Fitz and Skye, both of whom reacted with varying degrees of displeasure- though he suspected that their displeasure was, in some part, a holdover from his news about Ward.

He returned to the bedroom to begin packing his own things, finding Jemma neatly layering her sweaters and blouses in one suitcase. It was obvious that she was uncomfortable with the possibility that SHIELD medical staff might be attending to the birth, for which he could hardly blame her. After everything she had been through, he didn't like the idea of SHIELD having a hand in the birth at all.

Still, there was no denying the fact that Stark Tower was no longer as safe as it had once been. It had been infiltrated once, and the odds were good that Hydra would try to take it again. Fury's secret bases were just that- secret. Only he knew of their existence, and that in itself made their future temporary home somewhat safer.

She smiled when he began pulling his suits out of the closet and layering them in a garment bag. "It is nice to see you in suits again," she said, tucking several pairs of socks around her sweaters. "Though I miss how relaxed you looked in Lima."

"To quote Ecclesiastes, there is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens." He gave her a sly smile. "A time for suits, a time for civvies, and a time to seduce your wife while wearing a kevlar vest."

"I happen to be fond of all of those times." She smiled in return. "Do remember to pack that vest."

Despite her smiles, her shoulders were tense. "There is another option," he said after a moment, watching her carefully. "I spoke with Thor today- he's convinced Jane to spend a few weeks in Asgard." He smiled slightly. "I think he bribed her with science."

Jemma was giving him a far too perceptive look. "And?"

"He offered to drop you off there, as well."

Jemma stilled at his words, regarding him with an expression that was all too sad- and then suddenly she wasn't sad at all, but angry. "_No,_" she said firmly, dropping the stack of clothing she held onto the bed. "I absolutely refuse to leave you. You can't just ship me off to Asgard for my own protection."

"I thought it would be more like a science field trip," he replied in a conciliatory tone, and she scowled.

"It isn't a treat, Phil. It's a very bad precedent for our marriage."

He quirked a small smile at that. "When the going gets tough, send your wife to Asgard?"

She sniffed and turned away from him, lifting a hand to her eyes. "That isn't funny."

He had known that even as he had said it, hoping to introduce some levity to their conversation. "You're right," he admitted, and came up behind her. "I shouldn't have joked about it, and I am sorry." He placed his hands lightly on her shoulders, and when she leaned back against him, he wrapped his arms around her from behind.

"We have to live our lives here," she said softly. "I don't blame Jane for going- and any other time I would want to go- but I won't sit around in a palace in Asgard and worry."

He rather liked the idea of Jemma safe in a palace, though not necessarily the idea that she would worry the entire time- and she would. "Then stay with me," he conceded, kissing the delicate curve of one ear.

"Who else would make sure that you slept and ate regularly?" she muttered, swiping a tear from her cheek. "Part of the reason I let you feed me is so that I know you're eating, too."

"I knew that you had an ulterior motive." He rested one of his hands on her stomach, looking down over her shoulder as he traced his fingers over the developing curve. "I'm selfishly glad that you said no." The confession came out more softly than he had intended. "I would miss you desperately."

"You are a very silly man, sometimes," she grumbled, but pulled his arms more firmly around her, nonetheless.

"Guilty." He would have missed her desperately, and if she had taken him up on the offer he had stood the risk of missing more than just her. Weeks very well might have turned into months, under the right circumstances, and she may well have come back with a babe in arms. "I don't think many couples have their first marital spat over evacuation to an alien world."

"We've always been rather exceptional," she replied dryly, and turned her head to meet his eyes. "Mrs. Coulson isn't going anywhere, Agent. Get used to it."

"Very well, Mrs. Coulson," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the soft skin of her neck. "To the Playground we go."

"Who comes up with these ridiculous names?"

"I can never decide if the person who names them is leaning heavily on irony, or genuinely has no sense of humor," he replied, nuzzling her neck for good measure. "I suppose we'll find out soon enough."

* * *

They were met in the parking garage by Clint, Natasha, and Bruce, who were busily packing a van with luggage and locked boxes that Jemma suspected were filled with an abundance of weaponry. Clint grinned when he saw them. "What, you thought we were going to let you run off without us?" He gave a somewhat despairing glance to the stack of crates yet to be loaded. "Though I was tempted to spend a few more days lying around like a Victorian heroine with TB."

"All this whining over a few stairs." Natasha tossed her hair, her eyes glinting wickedly. "Why, when I was a child-"

"No!" Clint cut in. "I don't want to hear about how you climbed one hundred flights of stairs a day, in the snow, barefoot. Let's not even go there."

"At least we'll be able to continue our research," Jemma said to Bruce, ignoring the others as Natasha slipped into a taunting spiel in Russian. "Fury didn't force you to come, did he?"

"Ahh, no," he admitted, and ran a hand through his hair. "Though I will admit that research is actually my secondary purpose." He shrugged, looking embarrassed. "He asked me to act as base physician, for the time being."

"Oh." She considered this for a moment, frowning slightly. "Have you ever attended at a birth?"

"I delivered nine babies in Calcutta," he replied. "Seven survived, but the conditions weren't always optimal for delivery, so…"

Not what she had been hoping for, but then, she had been hoping to give birth anywhere other than in a SHIELD controlled facility. In many ways, she trusted Bruce with his relative inexperience over any obstetrician that SHIELD might provide. "We'll make do," she said, repressing the flare of nervousness. "I'm sure it will be fine."

"I'll help," Clint offered, giving them a look of such seriousness that it looped straight back to absurdity. "Don't worry, Jemma. I've been watching_Call the Midwife_."

"Truly excellent credentials," Bruce commented dryly. "I'll just let you take the lead when the time comes, shall I?"

Jemma suspected that her own expression was close to that of sheer horror. "I don't think that will be necessary," she said quickly, and scowled when she saw Natasha smirk. "I'm charging you with making sure he doesn't try to film the delivery."

"I'll keep him under control," Natasha promised. "He'll stay out of the vents when the time comes, even if I have to sit on him."

Tony entered the garage through the nearby door, his typical saunter not quite as smooth as usual. Skye and Fitz trailed behind them with their luggage. "I can't believe my science bro is leaving me for unknown climes," he said gloomily, and held out a pen. "Here, take this in remembrance of me."

Bruce accepted the pen, only to immediately begin to dismantle it. "Where did you hide the tracker, Tony?"

"That is a Mont Blanc, you philistine," Tony replied haughtily. "Even I have limits."

"Right," Bruce replied doubtfully, pulling out a small flashlight to examine the nooks and crevices of the instrument.

"I'd come with you, Agent, but Pepper and I have an empire to run," Tony explained, then paused. "Or, to be more precise, Pepper has an empire to run, and I have a Pepper to follow around and annoy as I try to protect her."

Jemma rolled her eyes at that. One day she would need to have a private sit down with Pepper and compare notes on how best to foil a fussing significant other. She had a feeling that it would prove enlightening for both of them.

Tony shook her hand. "Good luck, Mrs. Agent. I hope that when this is all over I will be able to add you to my payroll."

"It's going to cost you a great deal of money," she informed him cheerfully, and he grinned in return.

"I'm always happy to throw money at a worthy cause," he replied. "Make sure Agent doesn't get himself killed, again. It really pissed me off the first time."

She glanced over at Phil and raised a brow. "Believe me, Tony, I have a vested interest in making sure he lives through this fiasco."

"Then I leave him in your capable hands," Tony said magnanimously, ignoring Phil's sigh. "Blue Skies, Leopold, make me proud."

"It's Fitz," the man in question said with an annoyed expression. "Should have had it written into the bloody contract," he muttered.

"Leopold is the name of kings and emperors," Tony replied. "Live up to it."

Natasha placed the last piece of luggage into the back of the van, and swung the rear doors shut. "Time to go," she said. "Take care of Pepper," she told Tony. "She owes me a night of wine and pizza, and I intend to collect."

Phil took Jemma's arm gently when she began to move toward the van, and held up the key to Lola when she gave him a questioning glance. "We're meeting them there," he explained, and slipped his arm around her waist.

"Bringing both your best girls with you?" she said with a smile as they walked toward the car. "You're lucky I'm so understanding."

"That I am." He opened the door for her, and when she slid inside he pulled another key out of his pocket. "Keep this with you," he said, and she examined it carefully.

"This is a key to Lola," she stated softly, and raised her eyes to meet his.

"I picked it up the morning of the attack," he replied, looking a bit annoyed with himself. "I know that you could have hotwired her, but now you have the easier, faster option."

She wasn't surprised by the gesture, but actually holding the key in her hand was another matter entirely. "Oh, Phil." She could feel tears pricking at the corners of her eyes for the second time that day. Blasted hormones.

He didn't answer until after he had shut her door and climbed into the driver's seat. "I also updated my will," he continued, gently but firmly, and placed his hand on her knee when she gave a startled sob. "Everything goes to you, Jemma. Stark has the original, and both he and Pepper are familiar with the contents. Go to them if anything happens."

She was too overwhelmed to reply in any coherent fashion, just clasped her hand around the key until she thought the imprint would remain with her for life.

"I'm not planning on doing anything rash," he assured her, moving his hand to shift gears as they made their way out of the garage. "Confronting Loki the way I did the first time was stupid, and I won't make that mistake again. I just wanted to make sure everything was taken care of legally before we left town." He spared a glance for her before turning quickly back to the road. "My last will left everything to a cousin and a handful of charities. As worthy as those causes are, everything by right should go to you."

She took in several deep breaths, waiting until she was sure she could speak before opening her mouth. "Thank you for telling me," she said slowly. "And I am going to hold you to your promise to be careful."

"As you should." He took his hand off the gear shaft long enough to stroke her thigh. "Remember, I have a vested interest in living through this, as well. Two very good reasons, to be precise, and I'm not counting Lola."

"Good," she replied roughly. "Just keep those reasons in mind."

She appreciated his attention to detail, and he was right to bring up such matters now. She would have preferred to have had this conversation in a place more private than a car on a highway, but if she had learned anything during the past few years, it was not to take the present moment for granted. _Carpe diem,_ and all that.

Even with that in mind, she was still mildly annoyed when they drove onto the airfield, but the sight that awaited them was enough to make her laugh slightly in surprise. "Never thought we'd end up on the Bus again," she said as he parked in the landing bay. He turned to her after shutting down the car, an apologetic expression on his face.

"I'm sorry I made you cry," he said softly, prying her still clenched hand open gently. He took the key from her and tucked it into the pocket of her jeans, and then kissed the imprint on her palm. "My timing was terrible."

She sighed and relaxed the set of her shoulders. "Everything makes me cry," she said rather gloomily. "You were right to tell me."

Skye passed outside of her window, and she raised a brow when she caught a glimpse of Jemma's face. She continued on when Jemma gave her a slight shake of her head.

"We're attracting attention," Jemma informed him with a small smile. "We might as well continue on."

He released her hand after a moment, his expression still concerned. "Wait."

She unbuckled her seatbelt as he left the car and came around to her side, his chivalrous nature coming to the fore as he opened the door for her. "You're not my junior agent," he promised her, and kissed her soundly when she stood. "The rules have changed. Don't keep your hands to yourself."

She laughed at that, taking the handkerchief that he belatedly offered her. "I am not going to grope you in the lounge."

"Probably best if you didn't," he admitted, ushering her toward the stairs. "But we can hold hands."

"'Are the shades of Pemberly to be thus polluted?'" she asked in a scandalized tone, and giggled when he tickled her under her ribs. "I've never seen your quarters, here."

"Well, you have about twenty hours to acquaint yourself with them." He lowered his voice as they continued down the hall toward his office. "The bed is a bit small, but we'll survive, I expect."

"All the beds are small," someone contributed unexpectedly, and they entered the lounge to find Steve Rogers sitting nonchalantly on the couch, May smirking in the chair across from him. "Do you mind if I tag along?" he asked innocently, though Jemma could swear that there was a wicked glint in his eye. "I brought the uniform and everything."

"Well, if you brought the _uniform_," Clint said seriously, appearing across the room with a beer in his hand. "I suppose you could come with us, in that case. But you have to do the speech from your old show."

"I dunno," Steve replied, looking thoughtful. "Do you have a bunch of chorus girls? It isn't nearly as impressive without the chorus girls."

Phil looked a little overwhelmed, in that moment, and Jemma gently pushed him ahead of her out of the room. "Excuse us," she called back at the others, "he has an important call to make."

She held in her laugh until they reached his office, only allowing it to escape when the door was shut firmly behind them. "Phil, my dear, you have a problem."

"Repeated exposure," he said hopefully, sitting on the couch. "That will take care of it."

She smirked, and took a seat on the chair behind his desk, surveying the room from the vantage spot. "This chair is much more comfortable than the others," she said, stroking her fingers over the leather. "Certainly more comfortable than any of the chairs in the lounge."

He was watching her with a small smile. "Might as well mope in comfort."

She crooked her finger in his direction, and smiled in delight when he came over to her. "Did you feel this powerful when you sat behind this desk?"

"Possibly," he replied, leaning back against the edge of the desk. "Though I think you might be enjoying the power more than I ever did."

"Hmm." She stood and moved in front of him, distantly hearing the sound of the engines as May started the plane. "There's a camera in this room, isn't there?"

"Yes," he said, in a disappointed tone that told her that they had both been considering a similar idea. "Let me show you the bedroom."

Like his office, the small bedroom had also been stripped of any personal effects, leaving it as bare and bereft as academy housing. Phil pulled open a closet door and pulled out clean sheets and blankets, and together they made the bed.

"You probably have things to do," she half-asked as she pulled him toward her, and he shrugged.

"May has the coordinates. We've already had dinner, and if we go back to the lounge I'll just make a fool of myself again."

"Our things are still in Lola," she pointed out as he unbuttoned her sweater.

"Hardly worth bringing everything up here for one night." He drew the cardigan off her shoulders and began pulling up her blouse, his hands skimming over her sides. "We'll go back down later, when everyone is in bed."

Jemma was fairly sure that there was a flaw in his plan, but the way he was nuzzling her breasts was very distracting. In one neat motion he had her bra unhooked and had tossed it across the room, and shortly after that he had to hold her up as she tried to kick off her shoes, her legs tangled in the jeans he had pushed down to her knees. Finally, he sat her on the bed as she laughed almost uncontrollably, kneeling in front of her to finish what he had begun.

"You know, the sound-proofing in here really isn't that great," he informed her as he began to pull down her underwear, and she stopped laughing abruptly.

"Exactly how bad is it?"

"SHIELD generally prefers it when the other agents can hear if someone else is in distress," he said apologetically. "Talking isn't a problem, but… enthusiasm is rather another matter."

She stared at him for a moment. "I didn't realize I was that loud," she finally said as he pushed her knees apart, his intent obvious.

"Not always." He kissed the inside of one of her thighs, and nipped the skin lightly. "I've always enjoyed it."

She could believe that. "You aren't always that quiet, yourself."

"I know." He lifted his head long enough to give her a wolfish grin. "I'll be quiet, for the sake of your dignity."

She sucked in a quick breath when he lowered his head and delivered a particularly well-placed stroke of his tongue, and she strained to reach one of the pillows lying behind her. The closest one lay mere inches out of her reach, and she choked back a whine as he continued his ministrations with fervor. Finally she gathered a handful of the blanket and pressed her face against it, muffling her reactions.

He released her hips from his tight grasp as she shuddered with completion, and she was still trembling from the aftershocks when he stood and undressed, staring down at her with a satisfied smile. "Do you think you can be quiet a bit longer?" he asked.

She propped herself up on shaking elbows. "You are wicked, Phil," she informed him in a breathless tone. "And yes, I can, though I really shouldn't be on my back."

"How about on your side?" he suggested, pushing her back further on the bed. "I would suggest your knees, but mine are currently crying out from overuse."

"Absolutely wicked," she murmured as he lay down behind her, pulling her close. "Give me that pillow, Phil, I'm going to bite it."

"Of course," he replied in a low tone, arranging the pillows so that one lay underneath their heads and another was in her arms. He capped off his little performance with a gentle bite on the most sensitive spot on her neck, leaving her gasping. "Anything else?" he asked attentively, one of his hands already stroking her in a way that made her squirm.

She bit the pillow in response, and before he was through he made her very, very glad of having that option.

* * *

_Notes: _

_Many thanks to miserylovessarah for the Call the Midwife joke._

_Are the shades of Pemberly to be thus polluted? - Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen_


	30. Mandragora officinarum

_Not poppy, nor mandragora,_  
_Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,_  
_Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep_  
_Which thou owedst yesterday._  
-_Othello_ 3.3.368-71, William Shakespeare

Jemma was content to doze for a time, tucked against Phil's chest and basking in the kind of serene laziness they hadn't been able to indulge in for quite a while. Slowly energy began to trickle back through her, prodded on as much by a sudden need for a snack as the realization that eventually, they would both be grateful for clean clothes, and if she fell back into sleep that might result in teasing by more than one person the next morning.

She felt a bit smug as she slipped out of the bed with him still sleeping, carefully tucking the spare pillow under his arm and pulling the covers over his shoulders. He opened his eyes long enough that she knew he was perfectly aware of her actions, but he drifted back to sleep after a few soothing words on her part. She didn't need to be guarded 24/7 on the Bus; she was safer here, surrounded by Avengers and teammates, than she would be nearly anywhere else.

She redressed before walking quietly out into the corridors, which were silent and low-lit. It was odd to wander down the halls she had once lived in but no longer belonged to, passing the small pod that had once been hers with only a glance. Skye and Fitz had most likely claimed their old quarters, and she could only guess who now slept in that bed.

Jemma popped open Lola's trunk and began rummaging through their luggage. Phil had a small overnight bag tucked in one corner, which contained everything he would need for their one-night stay, and after a small sigh of irritation she pulled out clothing and toiletries for herself, packing them around his things. It would have been nice if he had warned her- but then, they had gotten into an argument over evacuating her to Asgard, of all things, and he was in general so exemplary a spouse that she didn't feel inclined to nurse a grudge over something so small.

After a moment of hesitation, Jemma detoured into the lab and switched on the lights, taking a long glance around the room where she had spent so many of her waking hours, as well as a number that should have been spent sleeping.

"It's pretty cool."

She glanced back at Bruce, who lingered in the doorway, looking just a bit on edge. Not a surprise, given his lack of love for enclosed spaces. As ever, he carefully maintained his personal boundaries, though at this point she knew that was a courtesy to her. As someone who occasionally exploded into a rage monster, he preferred to keep possible casualties as far away as possible.

"They were very thoughtful, when they set it up," she replied with a nod. "Lots of storage, both in the lab and down the hall. Ergonomic layout. Whoever designed the lab actually had experience working in a lab."

He smirked. "That isn't always the case."

"No, it isn't," she agreed, and after another look turned to walk out the door, cutting off the lights on her way. "Can't sleep?"

"Those little bunks are too small," he admitted, rolling his shoulders with the awkward, cagey stance of a claustrophobic. "I thought I would take a walk, maybe sleep on one of the couches." He held out his hand politely for the bag she carried, and after a moment she handed it to him before heading up the stairs.

"Tea?" she asked.

When she had left the Bus, the selection of tea had been plentiful- not exactly a surprise, when she and Fitz had been around to keep it stocked. Now only a handful of lone tea bags waited in a small canister, and she pulled out a bag of jasmine tea before handing the rest to her companion.

"I do have one question," he said as they waited for the kettle to sing. He had been wandering aimlessly around the room as she lingered by the stove, and as he spoke he drew back from the doorway which led into the lounge.

"Why was a SHIELD mobile unit fitted with only a kitchenette?" she asked with a small smile.

"That is somewhat related to my question, but no." He grinned, and gestured out the doorway with one hand. "Why the hell is the bar bigger than the kitchen? Did they buy this plane from Stark Industries?"

She laughed, turning to the small stove as the water began to boil. "That is an excellent question," she admitted. "To my knowledge, no, but now I am wondering what kind of person would design such an excellent lab, only to pull that kind of trick." She considered the layout of the plane for a moment, chuckling. "And only one bathroom for the five pods! At least they were kind enough to give the pilot and the team leader private bathrooms; otherwise it would have been a bit too awkward for my comfort."

He nodded, a mischievous cast to his face. "I can see that. One minute you're showering, and the next, Melinda May is peering at you from the mist. Waiting. Watching."

She had been pouring the water into their mugs, but she paused at his words, leveling the kettle before the boiling water overflowed onto the counter. "One, that is terrifying. Two, have you suddenly switched personalities with Clint?"

"I'm learning all kinds of bad habits from him," he replied with a sigh, not looking terribly sorry. "It's becoming a problem."

"I'm going to have nightmares, now," she teased him, replacing the kettle on the stove. "I hope you're pleased with yourself."

He tipped his head in the slightest of shrugs, turning serious. "I'm really sorry about this. I know I'm not exactly the kind of help you would want around, when the time comes."

"But you do have some experience," she pointed out gently. "As you might imagine, I would rather have someone I trust assisting me. And there's still about five months to go. Your worries might prove a moot point."

"True enough." He stared moodily into his mug. "The work I did in Calcutta in no way qualifies me to be an actual doctor, but people seem to forget that."

"SHIELD has a very bad habit of assigning people without actual medical degrees to medical posts," she replied dryly. "None of my degrees are in medicine, and yet I still found myself tasked with making sure everyone on the team remained alive and in reasonable health."

"You'd think they could afford to hire real doctors." He grinned, suddenly. "A pity that I resisted the urge to say, 'Dammit, man, I'm a physicist, not an obstetrician' to Fury's face."

She sighed in disappointment. "I wish you had. What a lost opportunity."

"I have a lot of regrets."

* * *

Phil vaguely remembered Jemma slipping away in the middle of the night, leaving him with only a pillow to hold, as if consoling him with a teddy bear, but when he woke the next morning she was curled up against him, per usual. The bed was a tight fit for two, but then, sharing quarters was technically verboten in a mobile unit, anyway.

"Are you ready to face Steve again?" she asked him sleepily, her head tucked against his neck.

"You're smirking at me, aren't you?"

If she hadn't been before, he could tell she was now. She pressed her lips languidly against his throat, her body loose and warm. "You could always impress him with your cooking. Worked on me."

The odds that he would burn something at a critical moment were high. "Be kind, Jemma. I'm a grown man with serious problems."

"Yes, sharing living quarters with Captain America indefinitely is a very serious problem," she agreed. "How will you ever get any work done?"

"Sheer will-power, I suspect." Perhaps he would find a closet to work in, once at the base. Or several. Best to rotate, or Clint would always be hiding in a vent above his head. "Maybe I could fake laryngitis."

"No, I don't think that is a very wise idea." Her tone was playful as she spoke, and she wriggled closer. "Imagine the fun Clint would have with that."

He would prefer not to, in all honesty.

"Do you know anything about the Playground?" she asked, stroking his chest idly with one hand. "What can we expect?"

"Not a clue," he answered honestly. All of Fury's secret facilities were different; the two he had visited personally might as well have been night and day. "I'm just hoping it's the one without the snake pits," he added slyly.

She froze mid-stretch, her toes brushing against his ankles. "Excuse me?"

"Scurrilous rumor, I'm sure," he replied, and buried his face in her hair. "Whoever started it should be sacked."

"There is _not_ a secret base with snake pits," she insisted, and pulled away from him. "Right?"

"I'm only relaying the rumor," he replied innocently. "But, you know, sometimes old school methods of discouraging invaders are best."

She was regarding him with narrow-eyed skepticism. "Is that so."

"There are few things more discouraging than falling into a pit filled with vipers."

"I can't deny that your statement has a ring of truth." She traced a finger down the line of his nose, and smiled when he kissed her fingertips. "And now I am going to take a shower," she declared, slipping out of bed. "Perhaps Steve has made breakfast again."

She turned back when he groaned, perching beside him on the edge of the bed. "Sorry." She leaned down, the ends of her cascading hair tickling his face. "I think your enthusiasm is adorable."

"I'm glad someone does," he grumbled. "Do you have a night-night gun handy? I need you to shoot me if I ask for his autograph again."

"I'm sorry, Phil. I have a very strict policy about shooting the father of my child, and that policy is that I don't."

"I suppose it is good to draw the line somewhere."

She stood and pulled off the shirt she had been wearing, pinning up her hair with a several bobby pins as he watched. "Are you going to join me?" she asked.

"It's too small," he replied glumly, and sat up. "Did your stomach grow overnight?"

She looked down thoughtfully as he ran his hands lightly over her belly, trying to determine if he was just imagining the slight difference. "Perhaps a little," she said judiciously. "I'm barely fitting into my regular clothes as it is. In another week I may be borrowing your shirts on a regular basis."

He bent down to brush his lips just above her belly button, reaching a hand around to her back to stroke his fingers over the lower portion of her spinal column. "You're welcome to them. They look better on you, anyway."

"I'm not sure about that." She pulled out of his grasp and padded into the bathroom, casting a glance back at him. "I do like having that little bit of you with me, though. Especially when a hint of your cologne is still caught in the weave." She smiled, a slight blush on her cheeks. "You've turned me into a romantic."

He followed her, leaning in through the bathroom door as she turned on the shower. "Jemma," he said, and she glanced back at him, a lock of hair falling from the pins to curl over her shoulder. "I love you."

She crossed the few steps between them and wound her arms around his neck. "Je t'aime."

"Show off," he murmured fondly, catching her lips with his when she grinned.

"Even you know that much French." She wriggled away, hurrying into the shower. "A certain former boss of mine would be absolutely aghast at how much water I've already wasted."

"You only get one Midgard, Jemma."

* * *

"The rest of you will _earn_ your lanyards, following orientation."

"Dear God," Clint muttered next to Jemma. "Summer camp from hell."

Agent Koenig strode ahead of them down a series of long corridors which finally culminated in a vast room of glass and concrete that looked disturbingly like some kind of avant-garde prison, or perhaps a very modern art museum. "Welcome to the Playground."

"Personally I was hoping for a few more shoots and ladders," Clint said thoughtfully.

"Maybe a trampoline," Skye chipped in. "Possibly an indoor pool."

"The pool is on the bottom floor," Koenig replied, ignoring the rest of their discussion. "Sleeping quarters are down the right hand corridor. The left hand corridor is reserved for only those who have earned the right to access that corridor."

Natasha made a noise that could have been disapproving or amused; it was difficult for Jemma to tell.

"If you will follow me, I will show you your assigned quarters."

The doors on either side of the hall which held the sleeping quarters were made of sleek, brushed metal. There were no obvious locks from the outside, but upon close inspection of their own door Jemma found a very advanced looking lock that appeared sturdy enough to ward off anyone but the Hulk. She supposed that the lack of security on the outside of the doors was not a major problem- theft would hardly be an issue with this crowd, except for as a prank, and if an enemy managed to breach the outer layers of defenses they would know before someone had a chance to hide in a closet.

"Your lanyard, Agent Coulson," Koenig said with pride, presenting Phil with the object in question. "Your wife will have to wait until after orientation to receive hers, I'm afraid."

Phil shot her an amused glance. "Thank you for this honor, Agent. It will be an excellent addition to my wardrobe."

"It is quite stylish," Koenig replied, and he actually appeared to be in earnest. He moved out into the corridor and clapped his hands. "We will meet for orientation in the common room in exactly one hour."

"By which time, Natasha and Clint will have already found the armory and every exit," Phil muttered, shutting the door to the hall. "Well," he said, glancing around the room, "it's certainly bigger than my quarters on the Bus."

She laughed, skirting around the pile of their luggage to walk toward the window. "Rather an understatement, don't you think? Aren't we supposed to be underground? This looks like real sunlight."

"I think it is real sunlight," he said, almost in disbelief, and held his hand out over the window seat. "It certainly feels like it. Some kind of solar panel, maybe."

"That would take a serious amount of camouflage." She sat on the padded bench, admiring the work that had gone into the window. Whether camouflaged glass or man-made vista and sunlamps, it was still impressive. She looked forward to hearing Fitz and Bruce's theories on its construction.

The room as a whole was roughly half the size of their former bedroom in Stark Tower (given how massive that room had been, Jemma had no problems with being in a smaller one). Much like the common area down the hall, the furnishings were rather more modern than she would have been comfortable with, but the bed at least looked soft.

"There's a bassinet in the corner," Phil murmured after a moment, and she blinked in surprise. With the sun slanting past her eyes, she had almost missed it. It was in a more old-fashioned style than the rest of the room- sweet, curved lines and soft yellow linen.

"Well, it was kind of him to think about it," Jemma admitted, blinking back a sudden tear, and unsure if she was referring to Koenig or Fury. "It's very pretty," she added as she walked over to it, running her fingertips over the wooden frame and tweaking the fabric of the lining between two fingers.

When she looked back at Phil he appeared lost in thought, perhaps even a bit starstruck. "We're going to have a baby," he said finally with a slow smile, and she tilted her head slightly in confusion.

"It's still a surprise?" she asked, walking back toward him.

He shrugged and sat on the window seat, pulling her gently onto his lap. "There's just something about proper furniture."

The sun was warm against her back, and for a moment it was like being back in Lima. She took ahold of the card attached to his lanyard, eyeing the orange color scheme askance. "Agent Phillip J. Coulson, Level 8," she read primly, and turned the card over to examine the security measures encoded on the back. "Very advanced, for such a little card."

"Are you going to steal my lanyard in the middle of the night and sneak into the out-of-bounds areas?" he asked with a smile.

"Why steal it when I can just take you with me?" She hooked a finger through one of his belt loops, and snuggled closer. "If Harry Potter taught me anything, it's that sneaking around by yourself isn't nearly as fun as with someone else. Married-couple shenanigans, if you will."

His smile turned into a smirk. "Are we going to shag in a broom closet?"

She frowned. "That sounds dreadfully uncomfortable."

"And distinctly unromantic," he replied. "The scent of bleach and mildew; the dim, yellow light. A turn-on for absolutely no one."

It struck her, suddenly, that he was holding himself a bit stiffly, and she stood. "Is it your knees?" She bit her lip and hastened across the room, releasing a relieved sigh when she checked the bathroom. "There is a tub. We have time, if another soak would help."

"After dinner." He gave her a smile and began unzipping one of the suitcases. "I will take a bath, with you, after dinner."

"That doesn't sound very relaxing," she called back as she checked the bathroom cupboards and found them stocked with towels and all manner of necessities. "But it does sound enjoyable."

"It will be," he replied confidently, and began hanging his suits in the closet.

When they returned to the common area for orientation, they found Clint sprawled lazily on one of the rafters overhead. "I really do think these are glass," he said, speaking in a very conversational tone for a man who was thirty feet above the ground without a safety harness. "What keeps this damn place from glittering on google earth?"

"That's classified," Koenig answered, appearing from seemingly thin air. "But I can tell you that each pane is nearly indestructible and treated to screen out UV rays, so do keep sunbathing. Vitamin D is underrated."

"They just don't make secret bunkers the way they used to," Steve quipped from his spot on one of the couches.

"Too light and airy for you?" Natasha asked him with the quirk of a brow. "Next time, I promise, we'll find you something with dust and spiders."

Koenig herded them down the left-hand corridor, opening the first door they came to. "Welcome to orientation," he said with a smile, and gestured toward a massive black chair in the center of the room. Judging by their expressions, both Fitz and Bruce were already trying to figure out how it ticked. "Just gonna need you guys to answer a few questions, a few psychoanalytic, non sequitur questions."

"A lie detector," Phil said flatly.

"_The_ lie detector, Agent Coulson. This baby measures galvanic skin response, oxygen consumption, micro-expressions, biofeedback brain waves, pupil dilation, voice biometrics - 96 variables in all. Fury designed this himself. He wanted a lie detector Romanov couldn't beat." Too late, he seemed to remember that the woman in question was standing in the room with them.

As one, they all turned to Natasha with inquiring looks, and in return to the unspoken question she merely gave them a serene, enigmatic smile.

After a moment Koenig pulled another lanyard out of his pocket, his expression rueful. "You're free to go, Agent Romanov."

Her smile turned smug. "Thank you."

"And if they fail?" Phil asked as Natasha left the room, his forehead creased.

"Then I follow protocol and eliminate the threat," Koenig replied simply, and placed a gun on the control table. "Mrs. Coulson, would you like to begin?"

Jemma shook her head slightly when the others looked likely to protest. "Of course." She caught Phil's gaze before he left the room, giving him an encouraging smile. "So," she said to Koenig brightly once they were alone, "hook me up."

She could believe that it measured 96 variables by the time he was done attaching electrodes. He examined the initial readouts on the control panel for a moment before lifting his head to face her. "What is your full name?"

"Jemma Elizabeth Coulson, née Simmons."

"Have you ever been married?" he asked smoothly, and she rolled her eyes. "Please don't do that," he begged. "It totally skews the results."

"I am currently married," she answered, resisting the urge to roll her eyes again.

"Thank you."

The questions were, indeed, complete non sequiturs, ranging from the differences between an egg and a rock (innumerable, obviously) to her experiences with illegal drugs (non-existent) to a lesser of two evils type scenario, in which she was forced to choose between dying in a box at the bottom of the ocean and being staked out in the sun on an ant hill (both options were ludicrous, but she reluctantly opted for the box).

"You wash up on a deserted island alone," he continued, unwearying. "Sitting on that island is a box. What is in that box?"

She gave him the only answer that made sense, for all that it was impossible. "The TARDIS."

He smirked slightly, and looked up at her. "Last question. Why are you here?"

"Because I have somehow become SHIELD's version of an army wife," she replied dryly. "And because, through an absolutely ridiculous set of circumstances, I have become a person of interest to Loki."

"Very good." He detached the various electrodes and held out a lanyard with a smile. "Welcome to the Playground, Mrs. Coulson. Or Dr. Simmons, whichever you prefer."

"I answer to both." She slipped the lanyard over her head, noting that the card had her ranked as 'civilian consultant, full access', which worked well enough for her.

"If you head toward the end of the corridor, the last door on your left might interest you," he said as he gestured for Skye to enter the room.

"Snazzy lanyard, Jemma." Clint was leaning against the wall awaiting his turn, and he nudged Phil in the side. "And to think you were worried."

"That gun doesn't hold ICER bullets," Phil responded somewhat grumpily. "Those are real bullets he's aiming at my people."

"It's very sweet of you to pretend that you are just as worried about us possibly getting shot as you were Jemma." Clint raised a brow. "How are you with lie detector tests, Cap? Is that something you can serum your way out of?"

"Serum isn't a verb," Steve replied patiently. "And as far as I know, they work absolutely fine on me. Bruce?"

"My baseline readings are always out of whack." Bruce looked up from the book in his hands, more amused than perhaps the situation called for. "If you hear a roar, scatter."

"Well, now that I officially have full access, I intend to explore a bit," Jemma said briskly, glancing down the hall in the direction Koenig had suggested. Curiosity might kill the cat, but satisfaction invariably brought it back. "Apparently there is something I have to see at the end of the hall."

She gave Phil a questioning glance, but he shook his head. "I'm going to stay, just in case things go south."

"Worried about me hulking out?" Bruce asked. "I should probably go last."

"No, I'm more worried about what Skye will do when she's forced to admit her real name," Phil confessed, and smirked slightly. "That name being Mary Sue Poots."

Clint's delighted laughter echoed off the walls as she made her way down the hall. The door in question was unmarked, and she pushed it open, expecting to find a lab or perhaps even a library behind the plain steel. Instead warm, moist air rushed out to greet her, the light spilling from the glass ceiling above onto the tables and potted greenery below.

A greenhouse, of all things, in the middle of a SHIELD facility. It was not a recent construction, but the plants were a recent addition- innocuous pots of roses and other flora, looking small and out of place on the spotless steel tables. Judging by the very advanced equipment lining the walls, whatever had been grown here in previous years had not been quite so ordinary.

Ignoring the plants for the moment, she circled the room, finding only empty filing cabinets and a computer that had been wiped clean of any previous research. Perhaps Skye could pry something from it, but it was beyond Jemma's skill-set.

"Well," she mused, carefully examining the plants and finding them to be in excellent health. "I would have preferred to have you planted in the ground, but I can work with this."

She wasn't entirely sure if this was some kind of bribe, or an attempt to keep her busy and out of the way, but now that the plants were here she was hardly going to let them wilt. As far as she was concerned, it was similar to finding an abandoned litter of kittens under your porch- it didn't do to just walk away.

And there was all that equipment, just waiting to be dusted off and used. In Lima she had had the plants, but not the lab. Surely it would be easy enough to obtain a few sundews, now that she had a lab.

Or perhaps a few dozen sundews.

Grabbing a pad of blank paper and a pen from one of the desks, she began making a list.

* * *

To Phil's relief, by the end of the afternoon everyone had been issued a lanyard with as little fuss as possible, and absolutely no one had been shot or had turned into a green, angry giant. As a plus, it was becoming increasingly clear that Koenig was just as in awe of Steve Rogers as Phil himself was, which Steve accepted with his typical good grace. The knowledge that he was not alone in his fanboy daze made Phil feel just a bit less of an idiot.

Naturally, it was when Phil was finally feeling some sense of relief that Fury called.

"It's the Fridge," he said bluntly. "We've managed to take it back, but when Hydra was raiding the shelves, they also released every single prisoner in those cells. We're seeing an uptick in crime everywhere from Sydney to Peoria."

"I can coordinate the strike teams from here; maybe send out Cap and Delta for the bigger troublemakers." That was- on paper, at least- the reason they were at the Playground in the first place. With May and the Bus ready and waiting, it would be easy enough to send them anywhere in the world at a moment's notice.

"Exactly the answer I was hoping for."

The list of prisoners Fury sent him held few surprises. No one who ranked a cell in the Fridge could be classified as an easy target, but there were problems, and then there were _problems_. Thankfully, the majority of the prisoners were the former, and he sent back instructions to the waiting agents, pulling together ragtag teams from the most geographically appropriate SHIELD-held facilities for each prisoner. The list he had been given of available agents felt incomplete; the names of many he had known and trusted were nowhere to be found, with no indication as to whether they had perished in the line of fire, revealed themselves as double agents, or were simply MIA.

Three prisoners remained once that task had been completed. Two of them- a firestarter, and a man who could give the Hulk a fair fight when it came to rage-induced strength- would be best handled by two of SHIELD's more specialized teams.

The last prisoner was Marcus Daniels.

Based solely on strength of ability alone, Daniels was somewhere between being a problem and a _problem_. It was possible that one of the standard teams might have been able to handle him, given the right kind of weaponry, but Phil's list of available agents was exhausted, and Daniels had been hard enough to capture the first time. There was no question where he was- he would be in Portland, or on his way to Portland, arrowing his way toward one particular target.

Phil stood from the desk for the first time in hours, realizing distantly that it was probably early evening, at the very least. The others would be at dinner, most likely, which was a vaguely appealing notion. Koenig's orientation hadn't included any actual orienting; the location of the kitchen was a mystery to him still. He found himself walking back toward his quarters, instead, his mind moving at a quick pace despite the fact that he himself felt numb.

Jemma was sitting cross-legged on their bed, reading something on a tablet, but when he entered she put it to the side. Her happy expression seemed to slip on seeing him, her gaze turning worried.

"What happened to your hair?" he asked curiously, which were not the words he had intended to say at all (he wasn't quite sure what those words had been), but his eyes had been caught by the added curl, and it just slipped out.

"Oh." She fingered one curl, smiling slightly. "I found a greenhouse. It's a bit humid in there."

He had rid himself of his jacket and shoes as she spoke, and when he was through sat on the edge of the bed and reached out to stroke a hand over her hair, faintly recalling memories of Lima. "Where's the kitchen?"

She frowned and caught his hand gently between hers. "Will you tell me what's wrong?"

He nodded slowly, and tried to gather his thoughts as he moved to sit against the pillows. "SHIELD took back the Fridge. A number of very dangerous objects have disappeared, as well as every single person who had been occupying a cell at that facility."

She moved closer, her expression sober. "They're not with Hydra, I take it?"

"We have a lead on nearly all of them, and some pretty good guesses for the rest."

"And one of them is Marcus Daniels," she interjected softly.

He should have known that she would make the connection. "Yes."

She was silent, looking both thoughtful and worried.

"I'll send Nat and Clint, possibly Fitz and Steve, as well," he continued hurriedly. "They'll need Fitz's help with the technical side of things. I can monitor the situation from here."

She placed her hand on his knee, stopping him just as he began to ramble. "He's that dangerous?"

"Yes."

"It would be easier if you could coordinate their strike on location, wouldn't it?"

"It would," he replied honestly. "Daniels wasn't sane then, and he isn't now. His reactions might be- odd."

She nodded, and met his gaze. "When do you leave?"

Despite her questions, he hadn't expected to hear those words fall from her mouth. "I'm not going."

"Of course you are," she said, looking surprised. "Why wouldn't you?"

He was speechless, for once, as he tried to scramble for an answer that would be both honest and diplomatic. Her gaze softened as she took in his obvious dilemma, and she grasped his hand. "Phil, listen to me," she said quietly, her fingertips resting lightly against the pulse point on his wrist. "I trust you, and I trust your experience in these matters. If you think he's dangerous, then he's dangerous, and not just Grace's life will be at stake." She paused briefly, as if trying to read his expression. "If something goes wrong and you aren't there, the guilt will eat you alive."

"So," she continued, a note of false cheer slipping into her voice. "When do you leave? Do you have time to eat and take another bath? I'm worried about your knees."

There was no telling how far Daniels had managed to travel since the Fridge had fallen, or how many he had already killed on his way to Portland. "Let me tell the others," he said, making a mental note to leave Steve behind as extra security. "We can wait a few hours; they'll need time to prepare."

She gently dropped his hand and climbed off of the bed. "I'll go make you a sandwich."

"Jemma-"

"You need to eat," she said stubbornly, and disappeared out the door.

* * *

The water was running in the tub when she returned from the kitchen, plate in hand, and he looked up from the bag he was packing with a half-hopeful expression on his face. The walk and the time alone had done her good- clarity had returned, and though she was concerned, it was more for his safety than anything else.

She was, she admitted, just the tiniest bit worried that this trip would stir up old longings that had never truly died, but she was not the type of person to refuse someone aid over petty jealousies. Phil loved her, and he would come back, and it wouldn't do to be cold to him now.

He looked surprised but relieved when she kissed him, his hands grasping her waist tight enough to tell her plainly how anxious he was over the mission. "Three hours," he said, keeping his gaze firmly on her face. "I need to pull together the gear and consult with the others, but I have an hour free, if you'll spend it with me."

"Of course." She slipped into the bathroom to check the water level as he began to eat, and she lingered there, watching the rising water and occasionally testing the temperature. She was already in the tub when he joined her, her hair pinned up and out of the way.

Neither said anything for the first few minutes. In the silence she tucked herself against him, pressing her ear against his chest to listen to the steady thump of his heart.

"You'll be very, very careful?" she asked in a murmur, letting her eyelids half close as she memorized the rhythm.

"Exceptionally careful," he promised her just as softly, keeping his arms wrapped firmly around her. "I'll be back in just a few days."

She nodded slightly, and turned her head just enough to place a kiss over his heart.

_Take care of this heart for me,_ she wanted to say, and even she wasn't quite sure which interpretation of that phrase she had intended.

* * *

_Notes: _

_Select lines have been taken from "The Only Light in the Darkness," namely the following exchange:_

_Koenig: Just gonna need you guys to answer a few questions, a few psychoanalytic, non sequitur questions._

_Coulson: A lie detector._

_Koenig: The lie detector, Agent Coulson. This baby measures galvanic skin response, oxygen consumption, micro-expressions, biofeedback brain waves, pupil dilation, voice biometrics - 96 variables in all. Fury designed this himself. He wanted a lie detector Romanov couldn't beat._

_And, of course, several lines in Jemma's interrogation._


	31. Rosa x centifolia

"_Aren't you sometimes frightened at being planted out here, with nobody to take care of you?"_  
_"There's the tree in the middle," said the Rose. "What else is it good for?"_  
_"But what could it do, if any danger came?" Alice asked._  
_"It could bark," said the Rose._  
-_Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There_, Lewis Carroll

Phil felt almost as if he were going off to war as he kissed Jemma goodbye, tucked away in the shadows beneath one of the Bus's wings. She was putting forth a brave face, but he could see the worry in her eyes, feel it in the thrum of tension along her jaw.

"I'm going to be very careful," he promised again, brushing his knuckles against her cheek. "This is the SHIELD equivalent of a Care Bear staredown. We'll defeat him with the power of light and be back before you know it."

She laughed at that, genuine amusement lightening her expression for a brief moment. "Well, when you put it that way…"

He felt in his jacket pocket, pulling out a handkerchief and tucking it in the pocket of her jeans. "There are others in my dresser," he said with a slight smile. "Take as many of them as you like. The same also applies to any item of clothing you might get the urge to wear while I'm away."

"I'm going to steal all of your jumpers," she murmured, pressing her face to the crook of his neck. "I still think you should take Steve with you."

"No, my dear, Steve stays with you, just in case." He ran his fingers through her hair, wondering for the hundredth time if leaving wasn't some massive mistake on his part. "And I hope that such a measure is completely unnecessary."

She was quiet for a moment, her breath warm against his neck. "I love you, Phil."

He took in a quick breath, tightening his arm around her waist. "I love you, too."

She pulled away, giving him that strained, brave smile that was all too like the one he had seen on her face before she had jumped from the Bus two years before. "The sooner you leave, the sooner you'll be back," she said, and brushed her fingers over the collar on his jacket. "I'm afraid I cried a bit on your shoulder," she continued with a small laugh. "Thankfully wool doesn't have the memory of silk."

She pulled him out of the shadows by the hand before he could reply, towing him gently but firmly to where everyone else waited. "No getting arrested, Clint," she said in a remarkably playful tone for someone with tear stains on her cheeks. "The only person I'm willing to bail out of jail is Phil."

Phil noted how quickly Clint switched from subtly glaring at him (because he knew, of course he knew, why Portland was so important) to aiming his most charming smile at Jemma. "That's for the best. He would only slow us down when Nat and I made our jail break."

Normally Phil would have shot his best barb right back at Clint for that joke, but this was neither the time nor place.

Skye was the only other occupant of the Playground who showed up for the farewell, and both she and Fitz were watching them with suspicion written large across their faces. They might not know the import of this particular mission, but they read the tension easily enough, and neither of them looked happy about it.

"What are you waiting for?" Jemma asked lightly, dropping his hand and stepping back. "I have roses to take care of. Get on with it."

He took one last look at her as the bay door closed, and she lifted her hand in farewell, a look he couldn't quite determine on her face. Worry, yes, but something more- something akin to sorrow, perhaps. The door sealed shut, and he had to restrain himself from immediately re-opening it. They had spent too much time apart in the past few days, had in fact been married for less than a week and spent as much time apart as they had together.

His team went their separate ways while May took them to proper altitude, only meeting again around the holotable once she had the plane safely on auto-pilot. Phil stood back as Fitz manipulated the energy field, not eager to betray his own complete inability to use the damn thing.

"So, all cards on the table," Clint said bluntly as Fitz pulled up Daniels' file on the nearby screen. "The woman Daniels is after is Phil's ex-girlfriend," he told Fitz, his gaze serious and direct. "And before you get all hot under the collar about him leaving Jemma behind to save an ex- because believe me, I'm not too pleased about it either- I'm just going to point out that he hasn't seen her since he died, and he wouldn't have left Jemma if he thought the Playground was at all dangerous."

The room was silent for precious seconds. Phil himself had hoped to avoid this particular revelation- would have preferred it if everyone had treated the mission like any other, in all honesty- but perhaps it was better to have everyone on the same page. Fitz had already guessed that something was off; at least the flight would give him the time to process his feelings on the matter.

Fitz tilted his head to the side slightly, his expression carefully blank. "Sounds like you," he said finally, his voice revealing nothing. "More honor than sense."

Natasha quirked a small smile. "You should have that embroidered on a pillow, Phil."

Judging by the look on her face, he might one day come home to find just such a pillow on his couch. "It's not just Grace who's in danger," he said calmly, placing his hands steadily against the rim of the table. "Portland still has power, which means he has an entire city to pull energy from, if he gets the opportunity. He wasn't that strong when we last met, but we shouldn't take our chances with him."

After a moment Fitz nodded, slipping into a more professional mien, his tone brisk. "I spoke with Dr. Banner before we left, and he had a few suggestions. I checked the file- the equipment we chose greatly exceeds what was originally used against Daniels." He met Phil's gaze briefly. "She still thinks you're dead?"

"And she will keep thinking that," Phil replied firmly. "No need to dredge up the matter years after the fact, especially as I am very unavailable." He stressed the last phrase, wanting Fitz to understand his intentions.

"Excellent," Fitz said in a clipped tone. "So. Trap?"

"Trap," Natasha and May agreed simultaneously, and Phil and Clint exchanged a confused look.

"More honor than sense," Fitz repeated dryly. "If Hydra and Loki wanted to draw you out and they couldn't get their grimy hands on Jemma, I'm guessing that Grace would be the next likely target?"

Phil could have kicked himself for missing the obvious. "For those in the know, yes," he admitted. "She would certainly be the easiest target."

"Oh, good," Clint said with a sigh. "And here I thought we were going to be bored."

* * *

Jemma couldn't sleep, and at first she blamed it solely on worry- worry about Daniels, about Hydra and Loki lurking somewhere out of sight, and worry over the woman she knew only by name. She shouldn't worry over Grace- especially since her worry was less _for_ Grace, and more about Grace, Grace and Phil and what had been lost when he had died on the helicarrier.

She wasn't concerned that Phil would be unfaithful- the man didn't have an unfaithful bone in his body, as far as Jemma could tell- but having experienced the kind of love Phil could offer, she was torn between utter sympathy for Grace's loss and a fierce possessiveness that had her wishing she had never urged him to leave at all.

The blankets and the top sheet were completely tangled from her tossing and turning by the time she gave up on the idea of sleep and moved to the window seat. The moon had waned to nearly a sliver, and there was little to be seen outside of her window. She was not entirely sure where the Playground was, only that it was isolated deep in some forbidding countryside, tucked amongst sharp-edged cliffs and sparse, dry fields.

She didn't particularly like the Playground, though she appreciated the use of the greenhouse. She hadn't been able to pinpoint exactly _why_ the base set her on edge until after Phil left, when she had finally realized that her dislike was based largely on the interior decorating.

There was too much white in the Playground, white and shiny steel, and the longer the thought nagged at her in the dark of the night the more she began to feel that the halls outside her door were different halls. She hadn't thought about the facility in a long time- or at least not thought about it quite like this, like something at the edge of her vision, just waiting to slip into place.

There were windows here, at least. And high ceilings and doors that opened, and the stars at night were beautiful and bright.

When she woke up the next morning, her neck stiff and legs cramped from sleeping on the tiny little bench, she laughed a little at her overactive imagination. Over a year removed from the facility, and she was letting herself be unnerved by the color of the walls. Ridiculous. She was a grown woman who was perfectly capable of sleeping alone for a few days, and she was hardly alone the rest of the time. Phil had left her Captain America as a guard, and if that wasn't the ultimate gesture of love on his part she didn't know what was.

Still, she hastened down the corridors to the kitchen, keeping to the middle of the hall and out of reach of anyone who might suddenly appear in a doorway. The common area, filled as it was with light, was only somewhat better than the corridors- all that open space with nothing to hide behind was suddenly less pleasing than it had been the day before.

"Weird how quiet it got once they left," Skye said in greeting, a bowl of some marshmallow-dotted cereal in front of her. "I wish Koenig would give us a map; I nearly got lost this morning. There must be a laundry room here somewhere. Somewhere."

"Maybe on that mysterious lower floor?" Jemma suggested, examining the contents of the fridge. "We could check after breakfast; you probably want to find the pool, anyway."

Skye grinned. "Yes! Wish I'd packed a swimsuit, but we could always go skinny dipping."

"No," Jemma replied with a decisive shake of her head. "But I will keep watch if you decide to do so."

"Skinny dipping falls under bad-girl shenanigans, Jemma." Skye shook a finger at her teasingly. "Surely a bad girl of your caliber is up to the task."

"No." It came out sharper than she had intended, and she could see in Skye's face the same shock that Jemma herself felt. "I'm sorry, Skye." She glanced quickly at the door, and finding it empty pulled up her sweater to bare her stomach, twisting her fingers nervously in the knit fabric. "I'm still a little self-conscious."

Skye dropped her spoon into her bowl and stared for a moment, looking more and more pissed off. "Those bastards."

"There are… others," Jemma continued, dropping the fabric. "I'm not- it's just, I don't even think about them with Phil, but…"

"Point taken." Skye picked up her spoon again, but began using it to viciously smash marshmallows against the bottom of the bowl. "So. Laundry room. We'll make our own map."

Unsurprisingly, Skye had an app for that. "So, I just turn it on and ta-da, it plots our route. We can make notes about what we find, and at the end we will sort of, maybe, have a map," she said when they finally set out. "First question- where are the stairs?"

It took them a half an hour to find the stairs- "If we can't find them, at least Hydra won't be able to either," Skye said with an irritated sigh- but they finally found them behind a door in the kitchen pantry.

"Do you get the feeling that two rival architects designed this place?" Skye asked as she preceded Jemma down the stairs that were, sadly, rather akin to something out of a horror movie set in an abandoned mental institution. "I feel like we're going into someone's murder basement."

Surrounded by whitewashed cinderblock and dim lights, Jemma couldn't help but agree. Her skin prickled with goosebumps, and she moved closer to Skye as they continued down the hall. "Are we sure the laundry room isn't upstairs?"

"No," Skye admitted, pushing open a door and revealing a janitor's closet. "I just have a hunch."

Empty offices lined the hall, interspersed with the occasional bathroom or supply closet. They soon reached a dead end and exchanged a shrug before heading down the right-hand corridor.

"So, what is it with Portland?" Skye asked casually as they opened door after door, not finding anything of import. "Is there a hellmouth there, or something?"

Jemma kept her expression as straight as possible, resisting the urge to scrub her damp palms against her jeans. "Not to my knowledge, no."

"I only ask because May, Clint, and Natasha looked pretty angry over this assignment." Skye was eyeing her suspiciously. "Or to be more specific, pretty angry with AC."

"They did seem a bit perturbed," Jemma agreed in a vague tone, pushing open the door at the end of the corridor. "Look! We finally found the pool."

"And next time I feel like walking through a murder basement by my lonesome for a swim, I'll be glad to know where it is." Skye pulled the door firmly shut. "So. Portland."

"Daniels is supposed to be very dangerous."

"Yes, because our favorite super-scary operatives scare so easily," Skye agreed dryly. "May was positively quivering with fear."

Jemma hesitated as they retraced their steps, biting her lip as she considered telling even a portion of the story to Skye. She shouldn't, really- it was Phil's story to reveal as he chose. It only affected Jemma indirectly, though at that moment Jemma felt like she were directly in the line of fire. "It's not my story to tell," she said finally, quickening her steps to reach the next mysterious door before Skye. "I really can't-"

The words she had intended to say died in her mouth. White floor, white walls, small iron bed with a worn mattress- and a lock on the outside of the door, thick and impenetrable.

"I'm going to go back upstairs," she said in a whisper to Skye, who peered into the room and then back at her, looking a bit alarmed. "If you find the laundry room-"

She stuttered to a stop and turned, momentarily disoriented before regaining her bearings. Maybe she could bribe Skye into doing her laundry for the foreseeable future, if the laundry room really was somewhere in the basement. Maybe, maybe- maybe there was-

Jemma ran up the stairs ahead of Skye, unsure how she would be sleeping at all that night, knowing that a room that could have sprung from her nightmares was just a floor below.

* * *

Phil had never been fond of stakeouts- he had never met an agent who was, in all fairness- and the evening they spent outside of the rehearsal hall seemed particularly interminable. Clint had crept into the building earlier that day and planted a number of bugs, and now they waited as Tavener's _The Protecting Veil_ drifted through their speakers. The piece featured the cello heavily, its rich voice somber, almost an ison amidst the other strings.

It wasn't a piece he had heard Grace play before, but he thought he recognized her distinctive phrasing as the music continued. Even if he hadn't, the website for the Portland Philharmonic had clearly listed her as the soloist for this particular concert.

He had noted with some interest as they followed her to the hall that her route was unorthodox, twisting and turning through various side streets and random neighborhoods before eventually ending at her final destination. He suspected that if they were to follow her night after night, she would lead them through at least a dozen more wildly different routes. He had taught her that trick, after Daniels had been locked away, and it looked as if it had become a habit.

Finally the rehearsal ended, and the musicians spilled out the stage door and walked to their own cars. Grace was impossible to miss amidst the bunch, carrying a cello case that was almost as big as she was. She threw her head back as she passed below a streetlight, laughing in response to something a friend said to her, and it was the first glimpse he had caught of her in years.

She looked much the same. Still as beautiful as ever, with the quick, confident walk that had drawn him to her from the moment they had first met. There had once been a time when she had been able to steal his breath away with just one look, and had he been a weaker man he might have spilled all manner of secrets to her. Grace knew about SHIELD- she had to, given the circumstances under which they had met- but what she knew was merely the tip of the iceberg. It had always been a matter of quiet contention between them, his secrets and her curiosity.

He would be lying if he denied feeling anything at the sight of her, but it was a mere echo of what that feeling had once been. Gone was the heady breathlessness, the desire to pull her close and run his fingers through her hair. Just a faint, dull ache, like an emotional aftershock.

It was a relief.

Their stakeout continued into the early morning hours outside of her house (and her return route had, indeed, been completely different), and it was only once the sun had risen that they returned to the Bus.

The others headed for the small kitchen immediately, intent on eating and sleep in quick succession, but he detoured into his office along the way. The urge to speak to Jemma was stronger than his desire for food, and in that moment he was very glad that satellite phones continued to work even as the common cellular network remained useless.

Koenig answered after the first ring, and cheerfully offered to patch him through to Jemma without being asked. It was Skye who picked up, and judging by the other voices in the room and the time-zone, he had caught them at dinner.

"AC, hey," she said casually. "Having fun in Portland?"

"Not particularly," he responded. "Is she free?"

"She's hovering at my elbow, very politely not snatching the phone from my- never mind." Skye's last words were muffled, and Phil had little trouble picturing Jemma wresting the phone from Skye's unresisting hands.

There was a pause, and then the thump of a door being shut. "Phil?"

Not nearly as good as being face to face with her, but worlds better than nothing. "Hello, darling."

She gave what sounded like a sigh of relief. "You're all right? Everything is going smoothly?"

"It's very quiet so far." He frowned. "Are you hiding in a closet?"

Her laugh in return almost sounded nervous, but then, the connection was not ideal. "In the pantry," she admitted, and there was a noise that sounded like a bolt being thrown. "Though I'm sure Skye has her ear to the door."

Her voice was tinged with unease. "Are you all right?" he asked gently. "Has something happened?"

"No, no. I just miss you," she said hurriedly. "That bed is far too big for just me."

"Nightmares?"

"A few," she said after a moment. "I'll be happy to have you home again. Or here, I mean." She laughed again. "It's not home unless you're here."

"I should be back in a few days." He certainly hoped that would be the case, in any event. His own sleep had been far from peaceful the night before. "Maybe you could bunk with Skye until then."

"Maybe." He caught her slight sigh, and he could almost visualize the tense expression he sensed was on her face. "Please stay safe, Phil."

More was bothering her than she obviously wanted to admit, and that in turn bothered him. "Will you please tell me what's wrong?"

"It's so silly," she said after a hesitation. "The walls are white. Of course the walls are white; white walls shouldn't make me nervous."

His memory of her small cell and the halls around it was still crystal clear, as was the memory of black smoke drifting along the gleaming white of the walls. "Please, stay with Skye." The days when she would wake in the quiet of the night with the urge to scrub her hands raw had passed, but she dreamed- and he dreamed- and their dreams were unpleasant. "Let her distract you with whatever bad-girl shenanigans she might dream up. Short-sheet Koenig's bed, replace the salt with sugar, just-"

"I know," she replied quietly, her voice distorted by the crackle of a failing signal. "I'll be fine. Stop worrying; I don't want you distracted."

Too late. The distance was suddenly more frustrating that it had been only minutes before. He had taken into account her physical safety when he made his hasty plans to leave, and he had assuaged whatever fears she might have about Grace and Portland as best he could, but he hadn't stopped to think how being left in SHIELD facility would affect her mentally. It was such a gross error in judgment that he could hardly believe his own thoughtlessness. "Jemma-"

"No one here is going to hurt me," she interrupted, speaking firmly. "I know that and you know that. I'm experiencing a small resurgence of some unpleasant memories, but I'll muddle through it." She gave a slight laugh. "Though I am afraid that I am putting you on permanent laundry duty for the rest of our time here. The lower floor makes me want to hide in a closet with a gun."

"Luckily for you, I excel at laundry," he replied, forcing himself to keep his tone light. "I'm a master hand at ironing."

"Of course you are," she said, the fondness in her voice evident even over the phone. "I look forward to a demonstration of your skills when you return."

He took a breath, conscious of the number of miles between them, and spoke softly. "Please be kind to yourself."

"I will do my best," she promised. "Come home soon, Phil. I could use a cuddle."

He liked the sound of that, as well. "Next time I tell you that I need to leave the base, I want you to tell me to jump in a lake, okay?"

"I will keep that in mind." She sounded a bit amused. "Now get some sleep."

He ended the call reluctantly, tempted to go straight to bed. Only the knowledge that she would frown at him for skipping a meal made him stand and leave his office, hoping that another night would see the end of a mission that was suddenly even less palatable than it had been when he had first seen Daniels' name on the list of escapees, less than two days previous.

* * *

She should have taken his suggestion and asked Skye to sleep with her, and had intended to do so, but at the last moment she changed her mind. It wasn't company she needed so much as Phil; sharing body heat with Skye would just be uncomfortable all around. Instead she bolted the door and pulled every single spare pillow from the closet, piling the lot around her on the bed like fortress walls. It was similar, she supposed, to pulling the covers over your head in the dark and trusting that the monsters would be deterred by wool and cotton.

There was something soothing about her little nest, soothing enough that the dark did not bother her as much as it had the previous nights. It helped that there was no moonlight that night, reducing the number of shadows in the room. She might be lonely, but she was warm and well-fed, and those factors alone made the Playground very different from the facility.

Still- white walls and steel and the flickering lights of the downstairs halls, and she pulled the covers over her head with a sudden shiver. The soft pillows were nothing like the firm and reassuring expanse of his chest, and she missed the sound of his heartbeat and the scent of his skin.

She did sleep, but it was more akin to a heavy doze, and when she woke to early morning sunlight she felt as if she hadn't slept at all.

One by one the others drifted into the greenhouse after breakfast, until only Koenig was absent. Skye and Bruce had taken an interest in the equipment, with Skye intent on discovering as many secrets as the computer might hold. After gaining her permission, Steve began to prune the rose bushes with the competent air of an experienced gardener.

"My grandmother had one rose bush in a pot on her fire escape," he explained with a smile. "It was her sixth child, and all the grandchildren were taught to give it due respect."

He continued to prune judiciously as Bruce and Skye chatted across the room, and they both kept quiet as the morning crept on. It was comforting to work in silence in the warm greenhouse with the low hum of conversation at her back, secure in the knowledge that she was safe and among friends. Koenig was the only unknown of their small party, but Jemma was inclined to believe that he was as trustworthy as he seemed. She was not one hundred percent confident in that assessment, but trust in strangers was no longer something that came naturally to her.

The man himself greeted them in his typical jovial manner when they entered the kitchen for lunch. "No worries," he said, setting a mug of coffee onto the counter in front of him. "Everything is going as planned in Portland, and I have good news."

"We get to have another go around in your nifty chair?" Skye asked dryly, hopping up onto one of the counters. "I don't suppose I could take a little peek at that program…?"

"No," Koenig replied flatly, and then smiled. "Fury's sending us a tactical team as reinforcements. They'll be Agent Coulson's primary away team in the future."

The spark of anxiety Jemma felt at the thought of new, unknown faces was outweighed by her relief at having Phil at the base for the foreseeable future. "Did they tell you who is leading the team?" she asked, covertly placing her hand against her stomach.

"Agent John Garrett." Koenig looked uncertain for a split second. "Former S.O. to Grant Ward, which is an unfortunate connection, I know."

Skye shot her a quick look before turning back to Koenig. "The team's been vetted by Fury?"

"They're solid," Koenig assured her. "Agent Garrett has a superb track record, and he's hardly the only superior officer to have a bad apple in the bunch."

"Phil has worked with Garrett before," Jemma said quietly, trying to remember the particulars. "He said good things about him."

Skye relaxed slightly, as did Bruce and Steve. "AC approved. Awesome."

"When do they arrive?" Steve might be somewhat more at ease, but Jemma noted that his stance was still that of someone awaiting an unexpected twist. He was wary, and she appreciated that, being wary herself.

"Tomorrow." Koenig refilled his mug before heading out the door. "Bright and early in the morning, probably before most of you get up."

"Just what I love," Bruce muttered once Koenig was safely out of earshot. "Meeting a bunch of military thugs before my first cup of coffee." He glanced at Steve with a crooked grin. "Present company excepted, of course."

"On the scale of angel to thug, I never rated as more than a hooligan," Steve admitted with a smile. "I'm a disappointment to all."

He turned to fetch a glass from one of the cabinets, and Jemma choked back a laugh when Skye's expression turned downright lascivious. She nudged Skye, raising a brow in mock admonishment when her friend glanced at her.

Skye's quick mime, which looked suspiciously like the jazz hands version of saluting the flag, was a perfect indicator for her current level of patriotism. She didn't seem to care that Bruce was watching her with obvious amusement.

"So," Steve said, missing the end of Skye's performance by barely a second. "How about a movie?"


	32. Tagetes patula

_Here's flowers for you;_  
_Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram;_  
_The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun_  
_And with him rises weeping: these are flowers_  
_Of middle summer, and I think they are given_  
_To men of middle age._  
-_The Winter's Tale_ 4.4.122-7, William Shakespeare

Phil called again that evening, though it was late enough that Jemma was spared the indignity of hiding in the pantry for a second time. Not only had doing so made her feel faintly ridiculous, but she had also been somewhat distracted from the conversation by her need to keep an eye on the door to the stairs, as if someone would come through at any moment and drag her away to the cell.

The phone in her quarters rang just as she was arranging her little pillow fortress for the night, and at the sound of his voice she happily abandoned her task and sat on the haphazard pile. "Hello, Phil."

"Hello, dear." He chuckled softly. "You sound better."

"I'm afraid we were very lazy this afternoon." She curled herself around one of the pillows, smiling. "Steve suggested watching a movie, and the next thing we knew Skye had planned out an entire marathon."

"I'm almost afraid to ask the theme."

"She insisted that Steve had to experience the Jim Henson oeuvre," she said. "He seemed to genuinely enjoy it."

"At least she didn't go straight to _The Human Centipede_."

She shuddered. "Ugh, no, please." He began to laugh, and she smiled despite her sudden surge of nausea. "Did Koenig tell you about the tactical team?"

His laughter stopped abruptly, seguing into a sigh. "Yes. I am not… thrilled."

"But not worried," she said, seeking clarification. "You've worked with him before, right?"

"Yes. He's brash and overly confident, but then, his reputation allows him to be."

"So he's safe."

He hesitated. "I haven't seen him since before New York. I wouldn't have pinned him as a traitor then, but I could say that about a lot of people. All I have to go on here is Fury's assurance on the matter."

"I have to question Fury's judgment in several matters," she said quietly, listening to him breathe on the other end of the line.

"Don't go out alone," he replied, utterly serious. "I would prefer if no one went out alone, not while Garrett's team is there. Just in case."

"The buddy system is going to be fully enforced?" Despite the urgency of the situation, it struck her as amusing. "Shall we all follow Steve like ducklings down the hall?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and he unexpectedly began to laugh. "Yes. I think you should definitely do that."

She grinned as he continued to laugh, though she did glance over at the door for at least the tenth time that evening to ensure that it was locked. "How is Portland?"

"Quiet," he said immediately. "No sign of Daniels so far, which is troubling in and of itself. Fitz has been spending all of his spare time with May."

"Interesting." She considered the idea for a moment. "Perhaps they're forming an alliance against you," she joked.

"Yes, I think I am in definite danger of being voted off the island." He lowered his voice slightly, the timbre deepening. "I miss you."

She found herself blushing in response. "I miss you, too." The odds that their conversation was being recorded were high, and so she carefully couched her reply in irreproachable words. "I'm wearing one of your sweatshirts."

And a few other things, but the SHIELD archives didn't need a full rundown. She could hear the slight hitch in his breathing at her words, but his only response was a careful, "Stay warm."

They couldn't speak for much longer than that; despite their different time zones, they were both tired and ready for whatever sleep they might be able to find. Still, it was hard for her to say goodbye.

She transferred him back to Koenig's extension, knowing that he would doubtless spend at least another half an hour discussing the situation with the others. She wouldn't be surprised if she opened her door the next morning to find Steve or Bruce waiting outside of it, and Skye was likely to get the same treatment. Jemma was perfectly capable of protecting herself, at least to a certain extent, and Skye was as well, but there was no arguing with the fact that Steve and Bruce had certain advantages, should the situation turn violent.

Jemma burrowed under the pile of pillows and blankets, not bothering to arrange them any further, and smiled. _Stay warm._

* * *

She awoke early, before the rising of the sun, feeling muddled and more than a little anxious. The Playground was too well insulated to give her any hint as to whether a plane might be anywhere nearby. The new team could already be on the premises, or nowhere near this airspace, and she would never know.

There was a knock on the door, and she smoothed her hair out as best she could before opening it.

"AC made me set my alarm," Skye informed her, looking disgruntled and more than a little sleepy. "You're not going anywhere yet, are you? I was hoping you'd let me catch another hour or two on AC's side of the bed." She gave Jemma a tired smile. "Never thought I'd be saying those words."

"Let me guess," Jemma said wryly. "This is to make for easy collecting, later?"

"He said something about ducklings," Skye replied with a yawn, and crawled up onto the bed. "Maybe we're supposed to imprint on Steve or something. I don't know."

Skye sprawled across the mattress and fell asleep with the ease of someone who was accustomed to sleeping in any place and under any circumstances. Jemma knew from experience that it was nearly impossible to wake Skye unless she actually wanted to wake up (though she had the uncanny ability to wake at a second's notice when the situation called for it), and as such she didn't bother tiptoeing around as she pulled clothing from the drawers and left the room to take a shower.

It was when she began to dress that she was pulled away from her worries about the coming morning. Her loose blouse was not the problem, but as she drew on her jeans in her distracted state, it occurred to her that something was off.

She stared down at the fastenings with a frown. There was a gap of nearly an inch between the button and the buttonhole, and she tugged experimentally on the zipper to see if it would rise any higher. The highest she could get it was just over three-quarters of the way to the top, and she quickly stripped the jeans back off and turned to examine herself from the side in the mirror.

Her stomach was no longer a gentle curve, but had become a definite bump. Small, yes, but large enough that a shift in her wardrobe was in order.

Hesitantly she curved her hands over her belly, her fingers overlapping, and after a moment spoke softly. "You're going to be moving soon, aren't you?" It was too early for the baby to be able to hear her voice, but it felt natural to open a one-sided dialogue. "I'm going to keep you safe," she promised. "Your father and I love you so much."

Folding the jeans, she walked quietly back into the bedroom, casting a glance over at the still-sleeping Skye as she did so. After pulling on a soft knit dress, she sat at the window to watch the sunrise and caught a glimpse of a plane overhead in the pinkish morning light.

"Skye," she said, moving to touch the other woman on the arm. "They're here."

Skye jerked awake with commendable speed. "You don't want to go meet them, do you?"

"No," Jemma replied fervently. "I have no idea what to do, in all honesty."

"Me, neither." Skye took a closer look at her, and smiled. "You've bumped."

Jemma laughed, amused by Skye's terminology. "I know."

"I mean, I knew there was a baby in there, but now I definitely know there is a baby in there." Skye rolled over onto her stomach and propped herself up on her elbows. "Do you think they make maternity shirts with Cap's shield on the belly?"

"Why don't you try and find a onesie instead?" Jemma replied dryly. "I would never be able to wear a shirt like that in public, not with Steve around."

"Of course not," Skye agreed, unperturbed. "With AC, that would be bedroom wear. Of course, the point is moot, seeing as no one will be shipping to 'The Playground, Back-end of Nowhere, Earth'."

Jemma's smirk quickly shifted into a frown as she looked toward the door. "I'm going to check and see if one of the boys is waiting. I'm hungry."

"At least let me check," Skye replied, getting off the bed. "My dodging skills are a bit better than yours, at the moment."

Skye hesitated before undoing the lock, finally giving a heavy sigh, as if irritated with herself. She pulled the door open quickly, jumping back as Steve tumbled into the room.

"Sorry," he said from his spot on the floor, looking abashed. "Pancakes?"

Bruce- who had not been sitting against the door, but instead leaning circumspectly against the wall- smothered a laugh.

Jemma expected their walk to the kitchen to be silent and tense, but with sly humor Steve began telling them about his stay in a small town in North Dakota, where he had spent several weeks as a cook at a local cafe. He hedged around the subject, but reading between the lines Jemma thought it was likely that a significant portion of the population had sighed with stricken longing when he had finally left town.

"It's not like you needed to get a job," Bruce said with a grin as Steve gathered the ingredients for pancakes. "Tony probably planted a credit card and an envelope of cash in your bag."

"He did," Steve readily agreed. "I used it. Just not necessarily on me."

Skye laughed and pulled a packet of bacon from the fridge. "Taking care of the fatherless and the widow, were you?" She raised a brow at the looks she received. "What? I was educated by nuns. I learned some stuff about the Bible."

They were still laughing at the indignant expression on her face when the first member of the tactical team appeared in the doorway. The young man in question, dressed in the garb of an operative and carrying what appeared to be a very heavy bag, appeared dumbstruck.

Not surprisingly, he was staring at Steve.

A smile suddenly broke across his face. "Captain Rogers, it's a pleasure," he said sincerely. "My name is Antoine Triplett- my grandfather was Gabe Jones."

Steve's smile in return verged on incandescent. "Gabe's grandson? He finally found a woman willing to put up with him?"

"For sixty-three years," Triplett replied, and judging by his grin Steve's quip had been exactly the right response. "And he was very aware of the great favor she bestowed upon him, too."

"You know," Steve said reflectively after they had shaken hands in greeting, "you're the first descendant of my team that I've met. Maybe you could introduce me around, when things settle down a bit."

"I would be glad to. It'll be a hell of a reunion, I'm sure." Triplett turned his friendly smile on the rest of them. "Pleasure to meet all of you. Please, call me Trip."

Despite his initial awe at meeting Steve, he greeted the rest of them with a warm, self-possessed air, shaking Bruce's hand in a manner that suggested respect but not fear. His smile on greeting Skye was gently flirtatious, and her smile in return was appreciative of that.

Jemma held out her hand first, no longer as on guard as she had been when he first appeared. "Jemma Coulson," she said, and shook his hand firmly. "Has the rest of your team arrived, as well?"

"Just me and Garrett, at the moment." He gestured toward the door. "He's discussing lanyards with Agent Koenig." Trip raised a brow at the ones they wore. "Which are styling, might I add."

"They certainly add much needed flair," Skye replied in a deadpan tone. "Perhaps even the equivalent of 37 pieces."

"No arguments here." Trip looked over at Steve, who had moved back to the stove as introductions continued. "Anything I can do to help?"

"You're a guest for the first meal," Steve replied. "We'll put you to work next time."

By the time Koenig and Garrett appeared at the door, all but Steve were seated at the table, working their way through their first helpings. Steve remained at the stove, flipping pancakes and chatting with Trip about the Howling Commandos and their families. Trip was an excellent and amusing storyteller, and as Jemma laughed along with the others she wished that Phil had been present as well. He would have adored hearing these stories, about marriages and children and team reunions, of the Howling Commandos sitting on porch swings and steps as their grandchildren played in the yard.

The man besides Koenig set Jemma on edge immediately, though she couldn't pinpoint exactly why. Perhaps it was simply his smirk, which seemed all too knowing for her tastes, or the way he moved into the room with the kind of confident swagger that made her wonder if he were about to plant a flag and declare ownership.

"What fine looking group," he said with a grin, dropping his gear near the door. A lanyard dangled around his neck, though Jemma knew that he couldn't have gone through the orientation in so short a time. "And a respectable one, too. Captain Rogers," he said with a nod. "Honor to work with you."

"Same, I'm sure," Steve said calmly in reply, his gaze assessing. "Hungry?"

Garrett accepted his full plate with aplomb, and despite the numerous empty chairs at the table chose the one to the right of Jemma. "I heard Phil had gotten hitched, but I didn't quite believe it." Garrett grinned broadly, and placed his hand firmly over hers on the table. "Aren't you a pretty little thing?"

Across the table Skye raised a brow. Trip's expression was calm, but Jemma thought she detected a hint of resigned embarrassment.

Garrett released her hand and leaned closer to her, obviously enjoying himself. "Phil's been busy, I see. When are you due?"

"July," she replied after a moment, too stunned to infuse her words with chill British censure. By now Steve had turned away from the stove, ignoring the pancakes beginning to burn, and both he and Bruce bore looks of restrained displeasure.

"I delivered a baby once, in the middle of a mission in Croatia," he informed her, a smile playing around his lips. "I'd be happy to assist Dr. Banner here, when the time comes."

Skye's expression of annoyance rapidly shifted to thinly-veiled horror, and Jemma felt much the same way. "Oh, I'm sure that won't be necessary," she replied as evenly as possible, and forced herself to say, "But I thank you for the generous offer."

The breakfast cheer was distinctly muted after that exchange. When Garrett and Trip finally left the room with Koenig to settle into their quarters, Jemma counted to a hundred before speaking, to give them adequate time to clear the area.

"I would be obliged if no one left me alone with that man," she said carefully, hiding her hands under the table when she felt that they might begin to shake. "Under any circumstances."

"He gives me the creeps," Skye said bluntly. "Seriously, I thought he was going to offer you a pelvic exam or something."

"Phil was right." Bruce carefully folded his napkin and placed it next to his plate. "Everyone's on the buddy system from now on. Steve, sit down and eat."

Steve sat down with a thoughtful expression and an impressive stack of pancakes and bacon on his plate. "What a sleaze," he finally said, and that seemed the final word on the matter.

A few minutes later he broke the silence. "Skye?"

Skye looked up from her third cup of coffee, a frown on her face. "Yeah?"

"Thirty-seven pieces of what?"

Skye blinked, a look of momentary bewilderment crossing her face, and then she grinned as the other two began to laugh. "Well, now I know what our next movie will be."

* * *

When Daniels finally appeared on the fourth night, their only warning was the streetlight blinking out above them, and then it was as if all the light on a single city block shuddered out of existence. From over the speakers they could hear the startled voices of the musicians inside the building, and it was as they flung the doors of the van open with weapons in hand that a passing car abruptly lost power and spun into their vehicle.

Clint and Natasha had already been halfway out of the doors when the car began to spin, and from the corner of his eye Phil saw them half leap and half scramble onto the roof of the van, seconds before impact. May, in the driver's seat, was too far away to be in mortal danger, and Fitz had been close beside her.

Phil, though, was most definitely in the wrong place and the wrong time, and as he threw himself backwards he had a split-second to think _Jemma is going to be furious with me_.

By all rights he should have been pinned between the two vehicles, but when the calamity of impact had dissipated, he found that he was instead pinned beneath a wiry Scot who had taken great offense at his daring to inadvertently endanger himself.

"You get hurt and Jemma will cry. Jemma will not be crying, do you understand me?" Fitz moved off of him, the height of disgruntlement.

"Did you just pull me clear of a car?" Phil asked in disbelief, and sat up. Other than a few new bruises, no damage. "How-"

The driver of the other vehicle stumbled out onto the pavement, looking stricken with guilt. "Oh, shit," he swore, propping himself up with a hand against the side of the van. "I am so sorry- I don't know what happened-"

"Not your fault," Phil said firmly, and hurriedly pulled a card out of his wallet. "Call this number; they'll deal with your insurance company. Everything will be fine, but now you need to run."

The man looked like he was about to protest, but a sudden burst of screams from the rehearsal hall made him turn and pelt away down the street.

The main doors to the hall were locked, but one side door had been wrenched from its hinges. They followed Daniels' path of destruction through the corridors into the main rehearsal space, where a crowd of frightened musicians held an assortment of flashlights and candles, most of them speaking in quick, frantic tones.

Above the buzz of the crowd Phil heard someone invoke Grace's name, along with the phrase, "-chased her out the back exit, _what the fuck_-"

It was enough to send them out through the aforementioned door, past an abandoned cello that lay on its back on the floor. The glass from the now-shattered overhead lights crunched beneath their feet as they hurried down the corridors, providing a self-evident trail that led straight out into an alley.

A deserted alley, to Phil's dismay, and when they rounded the corner that spat them back out onto the main street they found that the vehicle that had so recently smashed into their van was now gone, presumably with Daniels and Grace inside of it.

In the distance, another streetlight winked out.

"Follow the leader," Clint sighed as they piled back into the van. One of the back doors was no longer functional, but the second closed, and those unfortunate enough to be without a seatbelt hung on with grim determination as May exceeded the speed limit and took several turns that would have rolled the van if attempted by a less-skilled driver.

They couldn't see the car ahead of them, but the path of lost power was easy enough to follow within city limits. It was only as they reached the outskirts of town that their chase became difficult, as fewer and fewer lights flickered out ahead of them, until finally there were no lights at all.

The highway stretched endlessly before them, dark and seemingly empty, and they continued to follow along its curves for some ten minutes more before their journey culminated at the car crumpled against the guardrails.

In the illumination of their headlights the car appeared empty, but at second glance they all noticed the shattered windshield and the figure sprawled awkwardly across the pavement. There was no doubt in his mind who lay dead on the asphalt, and in the seconds before he reached the body Phil saw a tangle of long hair and Grace's delicate, shattered limbs.

And then he didn't, as proximity and shock cleared away the panic to reveal what was undeniably the corpse of Marcus Daniels.

"There's a bullet hole on the side of his temple," Natasha murmured, her hands dropping carefully to her own weapons. "Phil-"

"It was your gun," a weary voice said behind them, and they all turned to find Grace leaning against the side of the car. "Fury gave it to me. Made sure I had the proper lessons and permits. Never thought I would actually use it." She examined Daniels' body with a dazed expression. "He should have worn a seatbelt."

"Did we know that he could be killed with a gun?" Phil heard Clint ask in a whisper, and there was a thump that was most likely Natasha punching him on the arm.

Grace raised her head and met Phil's eyes squarely. "So," she said, quirking a small, strained smile. "How was death?"

And with that, she dropped to the ground in a faint.

* * *

A skeleton crew courtesy of the Portland office arrived on the scene quickly, bundling Daniels' body into a coroner's van and clearing the road of wreckage. Grace was transported to a local hospital, and after a brief conversation with the others Natasha climbed into the ambulance with the EMTs.

"Other than the complete lack of secrecy, I suppose that went off rather well," Clint said as the ambulance drove away, a note of uncertainty in his voice. "When she wakes up, maybe she'll have forgotten the whole living-dead boyfriend part."

"Doubtful." Phil glanced back at May, who stood with Fitz near the van. "She's going to remember this, and she will definitely remember Phil." She gave him a wry look. "Unfortunately."

"It would be cruel to lie to her," Fitz said slowly, and ran a hand through his hair. He shrugged when everyone looked to him. "I want to leave just as much as the rest of you," he said somewhat defensively. "Just seems unkind to skip town after everything she's been through."

Phil thought that it would be just as unkind to speak with her when she was in a more lucid state, reopening old wounds and pouring salt in them to boot. Would it really be worse to leave town now and allow her to think that she had imagined the entire encounter?

May sighed in quiet exasperation and jerked open the driver's side door to the van. "I'm going back to the Bus to sleep," she said shortly. "Either get in and ponder this dilemma in comfort, or walk back. I don't care."

The drive back was quiet, but once Phil was ensconced in his office the calls started- the Portland office, asking what to do with Daniels' corpse; Fury, who wanted to know how the hell everything could have gone to ass over tit; Tony, who somehow knew exactly what had happened and had called to offer comforting, if clumsy, words.

Natasha walked quietly through his door as the last conversation wound down, and she waited patiently as Phil said goodbye.

"She's awake," she said in a matter-of-fact tone. "She'd like to speak with you."

Phil leaned back in his chair and pulled open one of the drawers in his desk, where a bottle of aspirin waited. "Is that really a good idea?"

"Both options are bad," she said with a shrug. "She'll be hurt either way. There's nothing you can do about that."

"Not my favorite kind of decision."

"This could still be a trap," she mused, pulling one knee up to her chest. "But if it is, I don't think they counted on Grace carrying- and using- a gun. Neither Hydra nor Loki seem to think very much of women, have you noticed?"

"Which has been to our benefit, thus far." He swallowed two pills dry, wincing slightly.

"Oh, without a doubt," she agreed. "Still, it annoys me." She stood and stretched. "Call Jemma and let her know what happened. It would probably be best to get her opinion on this."

He stared at the sat phone for a few minutes after she left, and finally dialed the number for the Playground.

The voice that answered was not Koenig, but was familiar nonetheless. "Phil, you son of a bitch," Garrett said cheerfully, and Phil could just imagine him kicking back, his feet on Koenig's desk. "How the hell did you survive the helicarrier?"

"Long story," Phil said with a sigh. "Could you put Jemma on the line, please?"

"Gladly." Garrett chuckled. "You found yourself a pretty bride, Phil. Is she a fun tumble?"

"Don't be crass, John," Phil replied in irritation. Good-natured bawdiness was hardly out of character for Garrett, but it had never been Phil's favorite of his traits. "I hope you're being polite to my team."

"You know me," he said with an easy laugh. "I might not be well-mannered, but I am fun. Give me a second; I'll connect you to your lady."

Phil was on hold for several minutes before Jemma finally picked up, her voice concerned. "Phil? It's still night there, isn't it?"

"He's dead," he said heavily, and moved to lie down on the small couch. "Grace shot him."

Jemma was silent for a moment. "That's unexpected," she said finally. "Is she all right?"

"Shaken up, but fine." He sighed. "She saw me, Jemma."

"Oh." There was a rustle on the other end of the line. "Have you talked?" she asked hesitantly. "How did it go?"

"Not yet. I wanted to discuss it with you first." He rubbed his forehead, and when he pulled his hand away took a long look at his ring. "I don't want to misstep, Jemma," he said softly. "Tell me to come straight home and I will."

"I-"

She paused, then began again, her voice steadier. "I can't tell you what to do in this situation, Phil. But I trust you, and I think you should do what you think best."

"I don't know what's best," he admitted, and even to his own ears he thought he sounded a little lost.

Her voice when she spoke again was gentle. "I think you have an idea. It's fine if you need to speak with her, Phil. It might be best for her if you did. Otherwise there might always be… questions. On both sides."

She changed the topic abruptly. "The agent that came with Garrett seems nice. The grandson of one of Steve's old friends, if you can believe it."

He smiled. "Is that a subtle incentive to get me back at the base more quickly?"

"You caught me," she replied with a small laugh. "You are missing some excellent stories."

"You're the only incentive I need, Jemma." He draped an arm over his eyes to block out the light. "Are you sleeping any better? Is Garrett behaving himself?"

"Does he always make crude innuendos and touch people casually?" she asked dryly. "If so, then he's at least acting normal. And I am getting some sleep."

'Some' was much too vague a qualifier for his liking. "That is normal for him," he admitted. "He'll respond better to plain speech than quiet evasions. Tell him to fuck off, if you like."

"In those words?"

"Yes. Sadly, he'll respect you the more for it."

They were both quiet for a moment, and he was unsure what else he could possibly say, yet entirely unwilling to end the call.

"I should let you go," she finally said. "It's almost time for dinner. They'll be knocking on my door soon enough."

"I'll be home soon," he promised.

"I know you will." A pause. "Good luck, Phil."

He placed the phone on the floor beside him once the connection was broken and lay there for a few minutes more. It would be so very easy to just tell May to take them back to the Playground immediately, leaving the entire mess behind them.

"Oh hell," he swore with real feeling, standing with reluctance and shrugging on his jacket. "More honor than sense, indeed."


	33. Cattleya rex

_Some men say an army of horse and some men say an army on foot_  
_and some men say an army of ships is the most beautiful thing_  
_on the black earth. But I say it is_  
_what you love_.  
-Sappho (Carson)

Fitz was in the lab when he descended the stairs to the bay, and after a moment's consideration Phil detoured through the doors.

"Going to the hospital, sir?" Fitz asked before he could speak. "Jemma talked some sense into you?"

Phil gave him a rueful glance. "She did, in her own subtle way. Do you want to come with me?"

Fitz looked startled at that, then shook his head. "You don't need a chaperone." He sighed and shrugged, a bit sheepish. "I haven't exactly been at my most rational, lately. She's important to me, you know? She shouldn't have to deal with all this."

Phil considered and dismissed a dozen possible responses before finally saying, "You're important to her."

"Oh, I know that, too." Fitz began digging through a box of wires, setting aside several blue ones with care. "I've just been a right git about the whole thing. My mum wouldn't be too impressed with my behavior." He lifted a hand and waved dismissively. "Go say goodbye to that poor woman. We could be back at the base by tomorrow afternoon, if you hurry."

Phil suspected that May had a hand in Fitz's sudden change of heart. Perhaps he would buy her a cake. Or a gun. Something that would say, _thank you for saving my life. Again._

He bypassed Lola, choosing instead to drive the standard-issue SUV parked alongside, and found that Clint was already waiting in the passenger seat, a book in his hands.

"Don't bother telling me to stay," he said calmly, marking his spot with a bookmark. "I'm just tagging along to make sure Loki hasn't disguised himself as a doctor, a janitor, or, you know, your ex-girlfriend."

"Thank you for that comforting thought," Phil replied dryly as he backed out of the Bus. "And what musical entertainment have you put together for today's ride?"

"You know me too well." Clint hooked the ipod into the stereo system and scrolled through the playlists. "I will say that there are surprisingly few songs that fit this particular situation, but I did my best."

"I'm sure you did."

"The 'my girlfriend just found out I'm not dead' genre is nowhere near as plentiful as the 'my boyfriend's back and you're gonna be in trouble' genre."

"I have faith in you, Clint."

Clint allowed the first few selections to play before speaking again. "This is going to be quick, right?"

"As quick as I can make it." Phil resisted the urge to tap his fingers in frustration against the steering wheel. The traffic crawled ahead of them with no end in sight. "I'm ready to get back to the base."

Clint turned in his seat to face him. "Is Jemma doing okay?" He raised a brow when Phil glanced at him. "You know what I mean. SHIELD base, unknown agents, no Phil to hug. I'm just concerned about her."

"I don't think it's been easy," Phil admitted after a moment. "I didn't quite think that part through."

"She's steady," Clint offered in a calm tone. "At least with the new team you won't have to leave again. You can stay at the base and grovel."

"Am I expected to grovel?" Phil asked with a bit of bewilderment.

"You left your pregnant wife in a place guaranteed to give her nightmares so that you could save the woman you nearly married. Yeah, I think some groveling is in order." Clint shrugged. "Or, at least, Nat would make me grovel, probably with her boot on the back of my neck. Jemma will most likely be sweeter about the whole thing."

"This hasn't exactly been a joy trip for me," Phil felt compelled to point out, though Clint's words tempted him to pull onto the shoulder and bypass the vehicles inching along ahead of them. He really had been away for much too long, and ever since Jemma had first admitted her unease he had gone through his days feeling so jittery that it seemed a miracle that his hands hadn't started shaking.

"I'm not saying it has been," Clint replied. "It's sucked for all of us. Don't be an idiot."

Phil sighed, partly in exasperation and partly out of bone-deep weariness. "She told me to come," he said quietly. "I leapt at the chance, because- because I _am_ an idiot, apparently. I wish I had stayed."

"Well, at least you only have one ex with no closure." Clint raised a brow. "Unless you were playing Casanova in your off-hours."

"No, there was just Grace."

"Thank God. I was a bit worried that we would have to track down an entire orchestra of ex-girlfriends." Clint tossed his book into the backseat. "There were so many conflicting rumors about your love life before New York that even I had trouble keeping them straight."

Phil had heard his share of those rumors, and he had never been entirely sure if he should have been flattered by them or disturbed. "The vast majority were utterly false."

"Well, obviously," Clint replied with mock gravity. "The only ones I ever believed were the ones where you did unspeakable things to Lola."

"Those were the days."

* * *

She had been calm before she fell asleep- calm-ish, anyway, for someone who had just found out that her husband would likely be having a serious conversation with an old flame- but a pounding on the door pulled her from her dreams, and she realized belatedly that her throat was raw from screaming.

Skye and Steve stood directly in front of the door when she pulled it open, and Bruce hovered a few feet away, looking agitated.

"Just a nightmare," she said quickly before they could speak. "I'm fine."

The other three exchanged a look, and Skye ducked past her into the room. "I'm always up for a slumber party," she said, and began straightening the rumpled covers. "Go to sleep, boys. I've got this."

After a moment Jemma sighed in resignation and shut the door, locking it firmly. "You really don't need to stay."

"Umm, you were screaming for at least a solid minute. You don't have to tell me why, but I will be sticking around in case there actually is a monster under the bed." Skye dropped to her knees and checked under the bed-frame, then prowled through the rest of the quarters, checking the closet and the bathroom. "Freddy Krueger isn't hanging out under the mattress, so that's good."

Jemma settled herself back onto her side of the bed- the side farthest from the door, by habit, as Phil had slept between her and the outside world since the first night they had shared a bed- and waited for Skye to finish her search. Skye turned off the overhead light before hopping into bed next to her, leaving only the lamp on Jemma's side still burning.

"Was it about those bastard doctors?" Skye asked bluntly, propping herself up against three of Jemma's hoarded pillows. "Or was it creepy Garrett? I promise you, Jem, I will deliver that kid myself before his hands get anywhere near your lady bits."

Jemma chuckled dryly. "No, none of that. It's- it's foolish, really." Had she really been screaming for so long? Judging by the way her throat felt, it seemed entirely possible. "I just-"

She laughed again, though there was no real humor in it. "I dreamed we were getting a divorce. Silly me."

Skye waited quietly, her dark eyes grave, and the next words came tumbling out of Jemma's mouth in a frantic rush. "The judge gave Phil custody, and then they, well-"

She paused, her mouth dry, but finally managed to choke out, "They cut the baby out with a scalpel."

Skye tilted her head slightly to the side, considering her words with evident alarm. "Jemma," she finally said, "what the hell is up with Portland?"

Jemma didn't mean to cry- she really didn't, because she trusted her husband implicitly and in any case it was none of Skye's business, but the surreal dual memory of feeling hands holding her down and watching from above as the scalpel cut its red line was all too vivid.

"Phil's girlfriend," she choked out as soon as she could speak with any real legibility.

"_What?_"

"Ex," Jemma quickly clarified. "They were dating when he died. She's the one they went to save from Daniels."

"Oh," Skye finally said after a length pause. "That son of a bitch."

"No, don't say that. I told him to go."

"Of course you did." Skye slumped back against her pillows. "No wonder Natasha and Clint looked so pissed off when they left. She thinks he's still dead though, right? He'll stay in the van and do his AC boss thing from afar, and when they get back I'll kick him for you."

"No, you won't," Jemma said firmly.

"Jemma," Skye said slowly and suspiciously, "she thinks he's dead, right?"

"She accidentally saw him," Jemma admitted in a mutter. "It wasn't his fault."

Skye scowled. "He has a surprisingly complex love life for someone who excels in looking so- so bland."

"I'm going to sleep now." Jemma switched off the lamp with an irritated huff, and rolled onto her side, facing away from Skye. She doubted she would actually sleep, but faking it would be better than continuing the conversation.

"I'm still going to kick him," Skye warned.

"No, you will not."

"What's SHIELD going to do, fire me? Give me another piece of weird tech jewelry? Ooh, I'm so scared."

* * *

Grace was awake and waiting when he opened the door to her room. A re-run of some cop procedural played on the television bolted to the wall, but it was obvious she hadn't been paying much, if any, attention to it.

"I wondered," she said after he had closed the door. "I believed them when they told me you were dead, but a part of me always wondered."

"It was a long time before I was better," he said truthfully, glossing over the surgeries and the drugs in one fell swoop. "My continued existence was highly classified."

"Seems silly," she commented, plucking at a loose thread on her blanket. "Did they have you undercover? Why bother telling everyone you were dead?"

"I was more useful dead than alive." He forced himself to relax into his chair, trying to appear casual. "Or Fury thought I was, anyway."

She nodded, and met his eyes for the first time since before she had fainted. "I missed you. I cried for you, for- for days. I cried again when the sweater you left in my apartment stopped smelling like you." She shrugged, appearing at a sudden loss for words. "I- well."

He, too, was unsure what to say, and he ran his hands over his hair in muted frustration. "I thought it would be easier for you," he finally said. "A clean break. No sneaking around, no lies. It wouldn't have been fair if I had sworn you to secrecy."

"I'm not convinced that was really your choice to make," she replied, her voice so preternaturally calm he wondered if she were drugged. "But it sounds like a choice you _would_ make. You always were so keen to protect me."

"I was afraid it would only destroy us in the long run," he said quietly. "There could be no wedding, no house or children. Just stolen hours in dark rooms. You wouldn't have been able to tell anyone. I wasn't sure that either of us could bear it, not for years on end."

There was a long pause as she considered him. "You had your wedding, I see," she eventually said, nodding her head at his left hand. "I suppose her clearance is very high."

"We worked together." The truth, though not the whole truth. "I love her very much."

"That always was your strength," she said with an odd grin. "Does she know why you're here?"

"She knows."

"Brave of her." Grace gave a small sigh. "It must be nice, to have someone you don't have to keep secrets from."

Phil stared down at his hands, as if the lines on his palms might provide him with some magic answer. "Clearance levels exist for a reason, Grace."

"That's the Phil I remember," she murmured. "You haven't changed that much."

Every instance he might offer as proof that he had changed a great deal was a story that he couldn't tell her. He had kept secrets from her before, and he would keep secrets from her now, and in that particular aspect she was right- he hadn't changed.

"This is good, I think," she mused, dropping her gaze back to the loose thread on her blanket. "I used to dream that you would come back one day. Now that you have, I can stop dreaming."

She looked back up and gave him a bittersweet smile. "It's time for you to leave," she said gently. "Please, don't come back."

He paused at the door, his hand resting on the handle. "Goodbye, Grace."

Something akin to fondness crept into her smile. "Goodbye, Phil."

Phil opened the door and stepped through, feeling rather shell-shocked, and exchanged a nod with the agents who stood guard. He wasn't sure what he had expected out of the conversation- screaming, or tears, or a plea for him not to leave again- but he had not expected to be greeted and dismissed in less than ten minutes. Her calm composure and restrained irritation had been an unexpected blessing.

She would do well for herself, he was sure, and Fury had promised that she would have extra security for as long as she might conceivably be a target for Loki or Hydra insurgents. It was a relief, he realized, to finally have this door shut firmly behind him.

Clint raised a brow questioningly once they were back in the van. "So, not a conniving alien with daddy issues?"

"Nope," Phil said with a sigh. "Just an ex-girlfriend who is righteously annoyed with me."

"Good. Everything is as it should be, then." Clint began scrolling through his ipod. "Now we can leave. I'll make you a _please, baby, forgive me for running off_ mix for Jemma."

"That won't be necessary," Phil replied dryly, even as he gave serious consideration to stopping at a florist shop.

"Rule number one: it's always better to act like you need forgiveness, even if you think you don't."

"Had a lot of experience with this kind of situation, have you?" Phil pulled over into a parking lot and ran a search on the GPS. "We're going to take a detour."

"Try emeralds," Clint offered helpfully. "Or sapphires, she seems to like those."

"I have something better in mind," Phil said cryptically, and followed the GPS' directions to the nearest nursery.

Hours later, when they were finally in the air and Phil had given Fury his final report, he and Clint carefully moved the plants from the back of the van into the lab, where Phil meticulously followed the directions given to him by the nursery staff for the care and keeping of plants in the genus drosera.

"You aren't a hopeless case, after all," Fitz commented, a hint of snarkiness in his voice, but it quickly dissipated as he took in the selection. "She'll like these a sight better than diamonds, I can tell you that."

Jemma had mentioned her desire for sundews in an off-hand kind of manner before he had left. As he had finished gathering his things she had sat against the pillows on the bed, still rosy and flushed from their bath, telling him quietly about the greenhouse and the research she was considering. There had only been four sundews available at the nursery, fewer than he suspected she would need, but these would at least be a starting point.

At the last minute he had also purchased a pot of cattleya that looked remarkably similar to the ones that Jemma had tended in Lima. Clint paused beside the flowers and examined them carefully, a slight smile on his face. "She does love her orchids."

"We have to end this soon," Phil said quietly. "She won't want to raise the baby on a SHIELD base. Hell, I don't want to raise the baby on a SHIELD base, either."

"It can't continue indefinitely," Fitz replied unexpectedly. "It will all come to a head, sooner or later. We'll pull through."

He was undoubtedly right, at least in regard to the inevitable end of their current situation. Hydra might be accustomed to playing the long game, but Phil suspected that Loki's patience was rapidly running short. Much like Veruca Salt, he wanted everything, and he wanted it immediately.

God willing, there wouldn't be a musical number.

* * *

Skye was still grumbling when they got up the next morning, and she cast a baleful glance at the suits hanging in the closet when Jemma pulled out her own clothing for the day.

"You do realize that Phil and I didn't even know each other before the Bus, right?" Jemma asked her in irritation. "Just because they use to date doesn't make her undeserving of SHIELD's help."

Skye cast her hands up in the air, rolling her eyes. "I know. I know, okay? I'm just worried about you. Have you slept more than four hours at a time since he left? You certainly didn't last night, because I was awake for most of it."

Jemma shut the bathroom door behind her without replying, and studied herself in the mirror. She did look exhausted- she certainly felt exhausted- and the last thing she wanted to do was to dress and pretend to be normal in front of the others. She opened the door and returned the dress to the closet. "Would you get me something to eat?" she asked Skye, not bothering to conceal the weariness in her voice. "I'm going back to bed for a few more hours."

"You'll lock the door behind me?" Skye asked as she pulled her hoodie over the t-shirt she was wearing. "We should probably have a secret knock or something."

"You should think on that," Jemma replied encouragingly, lingering by the door as Skye toed on her flip-flops. "Don't go alone."

"I won't." She walked past Jemma into the hallway, and visibly brightened. "Hey, Steve, care to escort a girl to the kitchen?"

Jemma shut the door and locked it before she could be dragged into another conversation, then crawled back into bed. After considering the phone for several long minutes, she finally reached out and picked it up.

Garrett answered, to her misfortune. "Good morning, Mrs. Coulson," he said cheerfully. "Were you hoping for breakfast in bed?"

She rubbed her free hand over her eyes, a headache beginning to form. "Could you patch me through to the Bus, please?" she asked as politely as she possibly could, and given her upbringing, that was very polite indeed. "I would appreciate it."

"They'll all be asleep, honey." He chuckled. "Except May. Not sure if May ever sleeps."

He was right, of course- well, not about May never sleeping, but it would likely be close to the middle of the night for them, assuming they were still in Portland. "Of course," she replied after a moment, keeping her voice an uninflected as possible even as her disappointment spiked. "I'll try this evening."

"They'll be back by then," he said, surprising her. "I already spoke with Phil. Daniels is dead and it sounds like Phil managed to come to some kind of understanding with his cellist, so all's well that ends well."

She froze, unsure if she had heard him correctly. He had said the words so casually, as if the words 'an understanding' didn't often come laden with subtext. And then, of course, there was the possessive pronoun where no possessive pronoun should be.

"Still there?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered quickly. "Thank you for telling me."

She hung up with more haste than was absolutely necessary, the handset missing the cradle on her first try.

"You are being absolutely ridiculous," she told herself fiercely. "Are you really going to let that bastard lead you astray?"

She might not know Garrett well, but she suspected that he was the type of man who excelled at manipulation. Such a skill would be a definite asset to an operative, and she couldn't help but feel that he was using that particular skill set on her now. Whether it was simply second nature to him at this point or a purposeful act on his part was unclear.

Knowing that she was probably being manipulated did nothing to ease the anxiety that was clawing at her stomach. If she spoke with Garrett again, could she coax him to patch her through to the Bus, despite the hour? Would it be worth it to wake Phil up and dance around the questions she didn't want to ask, risking either dissolving into tears for no good reason or accidentally implying that she didn't trust him?

"You are being an utter cliché," she muttered to herself, and pulled a pillow over her head to block out the sight of the phone. "Honestly, Jemma."

She was still hiding under the pillow, trying not to bite at her nails, when the knock on the door came. Expecting Skye and her breakfast, she pulled it open only to find Garrett leaning against the doorframe.

She regretted, now, her choice to wear a t-shirt and a pair of Phil's boxers to bed the night before. It hadn't bothered her when the others had seen her attire after her nightmare- it wasn't revealing in the slightest, by modern standards- but with Garrett eyeing her legs as he was she felt practically naked.

"I probably gave you the wrong impression earlier," he said with an apologetic grin. "I really shouldn't be allowed to talk until after my third cup of coffee. Phil did not stay behind in Portland, to be clear."

She hadn't thought that he had, and she didn't appreciate Garrett coming by in person to continue with his Machiavellian tactics. "Oh, I never thought that," she replied coolly.

"Good." His smile was too charming for comfort. "Phil always does the honorable thing, but you know that."

She nearly choked on the urge to laugh in his face. Was he implying that Phil was only returning because of the baby? It was such a ridiculous thought that-

_bruising hands against her arms and legs and the searing pain as the scalpel leisurely slit open her skin and-_

She mentally shoved aside the shred of her nightmare that had unexpectedly accosted her, but she felt sick at the memory.

Steve's sudden appearance at the end of the corridor was a welcome disruption. "Good morning," he said calmly, balancing the tray he carried easily on one hand. "Agent Koenig was just asking after you," he informed Garrett with a perfectly congenial expression. "I believe Fury is on the line."

"Better not keep the boss waiting, then," Garrett replied with a chuckle, and left with a casual wave.

Steve handed Jemma the tray, the friendly mask he had been wearing disappearing. "I'm generally willing to give Fury the benefit of the doubt," he began once Garrett was out of view, meeting her gaze squarely, "but I have to question his judgment in sending that man here."

She hesitated before replying, double-checking the length of the hall to make sure they were alone. "I feel like he's toying with me," she said. "He's too experienced an operative to not know exactly what he's saying. One minute he's condescending, and then flirtatious, and then he makes pitying insinuations that Phil might not be… faithful, which is absolutely ridiculous." Steve raised a brow at that questioningly, and she shook her head, unwilling to explain the situation all over again. "I just don't know why… why he would want me to doubt Phil."

Steve frowned. "It could just be that he's hoping to enjoy your, err, favors," he said with a slight blush. "Forgive me for being blunt, but you've looked anxious ever since Coulson left. Garrett might be trying to take advantage of that."

She shook her head and placed the tray on the nearby dresser. "At the very least- assuming he told me the truth- the others will be back tonight."

He was giving her the same look of concern that she was beginning to receive all too regularly. "Do you want to be alone for a while, or should I ask Skye to come sit with you?"

"I'd prefer to be alone, thank you." In truth, she would prefer company, but not if said company was accompanied with worried looks and grumblings about why the team had gone to Portland. She would sit and fret in silence rather than endure that.

"I'll check back in at lunchtime," he said with a reluctant nod. "Sleep well."

The deadbolt, when she slid it closed, no longer looked as sturdy as it had on her first day in this room. A trick of the mind, she was sure. It was a pity that she couldn't go outside. A bit of fresh air would be a godsend, and maybe would sweep away this feeling of being caged.

Ignoring the tray, she sat on the window seat and settled in to watch the storm clouds move in from the west. It would rain soon, which would be a blessing for the parched ground outside. The gloomy skies certainly suited her mood.

Did Garrett really just have debauchery on his mind? Did he make a habit of trying to seduce other men's wives, or was he trying to best Phil for some reason?

"Maybe he has a pregnancy kink," she muttered darkly, rubbing her hand lightly over her stomach. "Maybe he has a thing for brunette Brits. Calm down."

Or maybe he just liked sparking her into a worried frenzy over Phil's activities in Portland. Being a lecherous, drama-seeking arse didn't necessarily correlate with being a villain, or at least not the type of villain they were interested in at the moment.

Still, it irked her to be further constrained when she was already penned within uncomfortable walls.

"I fucking hate him," she admitted aloud, and laughed.

* * *

It was well after midnight at the Playground by the time they arrived, and they were met only by Koenig and Garrett. "Your kids are already safely tucked in," John said with a cheerful grin, and slapped Phil on the back when they met. "I know you're eager to see the missus, but I need a few minutes of your time."

"Problems?" Phil asked, resisting the urge to rub at the crease he knew was forming on his brow.

"Not here," Garrett answered easily. "Fury called with a new mission, and I'll need to leave before dawn. Simple little thing, but it will give me the opportunity to pick up the rest of the team. Be back by the end of the week, probably."

"'The rest of'?" Phil quoted with a questioning glance.

"The other two were helping mop up the mess at the Triskelion. I'll leave Triplett here with you this time." He winked. "I'll let you go. Give your girl a kiss for me."

"Charming," Natasha commented dryly as Garrett strode away. "I'm so glad he'll be leading the away team from now on."

"Nothing Nat loves more than taking orders from a guy who stares at her tits and calls her sweetheart," Clint said with a sigh. "What was Fury thinking, Phil?"

"Probably that we're short on agents, and that Garrett gets the job done." Phil cast a look that verged on pleading at Natasha. "Try not to hurt him too badly."

"You might want to go ahead and start the paperwork," she responded calmly but implacably. "Keep it on file, at the very least."

He wasn't going to admit to her that he still had the basic forms on hand, just waiting for a few key additions. If he had learned anything in his time with Natasha, it was the value of always being prepared, and in her case that generally meant being prepared to file accident reports in triplicate.

Phil was not surprised when the door to his quarters was locked when he first tried the handle. He knocked quietly, hating that he might be waking her from sleep.

"Who is it?" she asked a few seconds later in a wary tone. "I don't want to sleep with Skye again; she kicks."

He smiled at that. "I'll tell Stark to add that fact to her employee file."

The lock snapped back immediately, and the door opened to reveal Jemma beaming at him. "Get inside and let me kiss you," she ordered with a smile, and as it was his favorite kind of order, he did exactly that.

Wrapping an arm around her waist, he pulled her to him after slamming the door shut, sliding the bolt home with his free hand. "Hello, dear," he murmured. Her newly rounded belly reminded him to keep his grip loose, and he grieved missing that change. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"Don't be silly, Phil," she replied with a chuckle. "I wasn't even sleeping."

She began picking apart the knot of his tie as they kissed, and when he made to pull away she used the fabric as leverage to keep him close. "A minute more," she breathed against his mouth, and they were both breathing heavily by the time she let him free.

The room was too dimly lit to study her face closely, and in any case he sensed that she wouldn't be happy for him to comment on the dark shadows that were most likely under her eyes. The relative lack of light seemed to be less of a burden to her, because she placed her hands lightly on the sides of his face and gave him a long look. "Get ready for bed," she said after a moment of study. "I want to see you comfortable."

It was when he turned on the bathroom light that he got a better look at her, as it spilled in a bright path across the room onto the bed. She was moving what seemed to be an inordinate number of pillows and stacking them neatly on the window seat, as well as an armful of books and papers that had been scattered across the covers.

She was wearing a camisole and a pair of his sweatpants, and he hid a smile at the way they puddled around her feet as she walked. Jemma caught him staring at her and grinned. "I don't even know why I'm still wearing these," she said cheekily, and untied the bow she had made of the ends of the drawstrings, allowing the sweatpants to fall to her feet with one quick shimmy of her hips.

Had it only been five days since they were last together? He felt almost as if it had been five months. "Just a few minutes," he said carefully, tearing his eyes away from the sight of her. "Let me- wait."

"Smooth, Coulson," he muttered to his reflection once he had closed the door, and heard her faint giggle. "Very smooth."

She was still in a good humor when he emerged after his hasty ablutions, only to find her lounging leisurely on her side on top of the blankets, clad only in her underwear. "That was six minutes and thirteen seconds," she informed him, looking away from the clock on the nightstand. "I counted."

It was only when he joined her in the pool of warm lamplight on the bed that he saw the trace of worry in her eyes, and it distracted him from her myriad of other charms. Instead of pulling her into a kiss, he lay down beside her and coaxed her into laying her head on his shoulder. "Tell me about your day," he said when she gave him a quizzical look.

"Oh," she replied, her surprise evident. "You don't want to-?"

He hadn't bothered to put on a shirt, and having so much of her warm skin pressed against him was very tempting. "Oh, I do," he assured her. "But you look like you have things to say."

She was quiet for a moment. "Could we get under the covers, first?"

He tucked the blankets carefully around her shoulders once they were settled, and raised a hand to stroke her hair. "Do you want to hear about my conversation with Grace?" he asked, and caught a glimpse of her guilty expression before she pressed her face against his neck.

"It's not any of my business," she murmured diffidently.

"Yes, it is," he replied. "It was very short, and by the end of it she made it clear that I'm an ass and that she never wanted to see me again. Thankfully," he continued, "I don't want to see her again either, and I am perfectly aware that I am, on occasion, a jerk."

"No, you aren't," she muttered against his neck, and pressed a kiss there.

"As much as I hate to disagree with you, I am." He tightened his arms around her, cuddling her closer. "I shouldn't have left you, and I'm sorry."

"I told you to go," she said with a frown, repositioning herself slightly so that she could meet his gaze. "I thought you needed to go to Portland, and- was I wrong?" she asked suddenly, the worry back in full-force. "Perhaps I pushed too hard."

"No, no," he replied quickly. "You said go, and I went. My regret is my own problem, but I'm glad for the closure." He studied her closely. "What else, dear?"

Jemma blushed, but her expression was more of irritation than anything else. "Does Agent Garrett… does he make a habit of…"

She paused, looking frustrated. "He… flirted, and he made it a point to imply that you were only coming back because of the baby, or at least that was my interpretation."

He allowed his hands to flex lightly against her, taking in a few deep breaths to settle himself. Perhaps he would need that paperwork after all. "You know, I never liked him very much."

She laughed in response, but hesitantly. "I've just been letting everything get to me," she said before he could continue. "Portland and the basement and Garrett's strange come-ons. I've been very silly about it all."

"I don't think you've been silly at all," he told her quietly. "You're the strongest person I know."

She gave him a small smile, and kissed him lightly. "I'm beginning to think you just don't know that many people."

"Excuse me," he protested playfully, stroking a hand over her hip. "I know a lot of people. Unlike certain members of our team, my employee evaluations always came back with high marks for congeniality and people skills."

"They had problems with Ward?" she guessed.

"Maria did a little drawing on his evaluation. She said it was a porcupine." He grinned at her. "It didn't look like a porcupine."

She sat up, smiling, and the covers dropped to drape around her hips. "What do you have on your schedule tomorrow?"

"Paperwork," he said with a shrug. "The usual."

"Maybe we could sleep in?" she suggested, stroking her fingertips over his arm. "Have a quiet morning?"

"Yes, I can definitely spare a morning for you." He pushed aside the blanket that half-covered her belly, and placed his hands carefully against the swell. "I'm sorry I missed this. The pop."

She looked amused. "It's just the beginning. I'll be huge in a few months, and probably very cranky about it."

He was almost looking forward to it- not that he would tell her that. He had a sneaking suspicion that grumpy Jemma would be an adorable sight. "I do have good news."

She gave him an expectant look.

"Garrett's leaving before dawn on a mission." Which was only going to delay the very serious discussion that Phil intended to have with him.

She clapped her hands in delight. "Oh, that is good news," she said with a smile, and placed one hand lightly on his chest. "Now can we have sex?"

"As long as it's not only in celebration of Garrett getting the hell out of dodge," he replied teasingly, pushing the covers further down. "Come here and kiss me, Jemma. I've been deprived."

"You poor little bunny," she said, and pouted very fetchingly. "How did you ever survive?" She straddled his lap, moving a bit more carefully than she had in months past. "And where would you like me to kiss you?" she asked with a wicked glint in her eyes. "Specify."

"Surprise me, Mrs. Coulson," he said, and kissed her fingertips. "I'm all yours."

* * *

_AN: I am now officially caught up on posting all of the current chapters, so updates will be a bit slower in the future- I generally update about once a week, these days. Thanks to everyone who is following and commenting!_


	34. Lilium longiflorum

_Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,_  
_And slips into the bosom of the lake._  
_So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip_  
_Into my bosom and be lost in me_.  
-_Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal_, Alfred, Lord Tennyson

She woke to the feeling of him stroking her hair, and snuggled closer with a happy little sigh. "Don't tell me what time it is," she murmured. "It's too early, whatever the clock might say."

"I promised you the morning, and I'm going to give you the morning." He shifted her carefully off the arm that had been under her head. "I do need to regain feeling in this arm, though."

"Hmm." She moved a few more inches down on the mattress and wrapped her arm around his waist. "I could have sworn that I wore you out."

"Old habits die hard," he replied. It was early, then. Before seven, probably, though she doubted that they had gotten to sleep before three in the morning. "Go back to sleep."

She fully intended to- or she at least intended to do so after she took care of a very pressing need. "Don't go anywhere," she said sternly as she got out of bed, pausing to tap a finger on his chin to emphasize her point.

When she returned a few minutes later, with freshly brushed teeth and a bladder that no longer complained, she found him sitting up in bed with a tablet on his lap. He was standing before she could speak, and pulled her into a hug. "I'll be back in a minute," he promised, and disappeared into the bathroom.

After grabbing a few of the extra pillows that she had piled onto the window seat the night before, she made herself comfortable on the bed and picked up his abandoned tablet. He had it open to the news, and she scrolled quickly through the newest reports. Loss of power in Stockholm, a Loki sighting in Belgrade, and a rash of mysterious fires in Maine.

"There's always Asgard," he offered somewhat tentatively when he returned, and laughed when she gave him the British variant of the finger without even looking up from the article she was reading.

"Only if you come with me," she replied calmly, and put the tablet aside. It had confirmed her suspicions- it was barely a quarter past seven in the morning, and she intended to get more than four hours of sleep. "No fighting, this morning." She smiled at him reassuringly as he slid into bed beside her. "Sleeping, cuddling, and love-making only. Don't make me penalize you for breaking the rules."

"The requisite activities are exactly what I was hoping for." He flashed his exquisite dimples at her and propped himself up on one elbow, placing his free hand on the curve of her stomach. "We've never discussed names."

"We've had bigger problems to worry about."

He began kissing his way across her belly, his lips lingering on the scar tissue, tickling her skin slightly with his stubble. "We can wait," he said peaceably, and rubbed his thumb against the longest scar. "They don't hurt, do they?"

"They itch, just a bit." She ruffled her fingers through his hair as he continued his ministrations. "How did you get all of those bruises?"

He stopped and looked up at her with a crooked grin. "Fitz pulled me out of the path of a car."

She froze, and felt her mouth drop. "A car? Fitz?"

"He's my hero," he said with no trace of irony.

"I should say so," she replied, gobsmacked. "What happened?"

"Daniels made it spin into our van." He lay down beside her and wrapped his arm around her hips, pressing his face against her side. "Fitz pulled me out of the way, and then he scolded me."

She dropped her head back and sighed, even as she smiled at the thought of Fitz chastising Phil in the middle of a mission. "You might have told me before I got on top of you, earlier. Did I hurt you?"

"Don't think on it, Jemma." He licked the curve of her hip, surprising her into a giggle. "Homecoming sex trumps a few little bruises."

"If you consider the sunrise on your back 'a few little bruises' then I'm afraid to ask what you would consider a more serious injury." She moved to lay down beside him, both of them facing each other on their sides. "Any other injuries I should know about?"

"That's it. Stress, insomnia, and a few bruises. Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Aren't we a pair," she said wryly. "I barely slept a wink while you were gone. And people thought Fitz and I were codependent."

He pulled her closer with a grin, nipping at her fingertips when she playfully poked at his dimples. "Perhaps we are a bit codependent. Or perhaps I sleep better with you because you're warm and soft, and you smell nice. And I love you, so there is that."

"A small, tiny thing," she agreed with a smile. "Practically insignificant."

His grin shifted into a sly smirk, an expression she was particularly fond of, now that she was well-acquainted with the kind of mood it heralded. "Do you need some help getting back to sleep, dear?" he asked in a murmur, curling a hand around the back of her thigh. "I've been a bit remiss in my husbandly duties."

Her libido certainly hadn't suffered during the first trimester, but now that she was free of the excessive fatigue and nausea she found that she spent most of her time feeling almost uncomfortably randy. "Yes, yes, you have. And you can do something else for me, later."

"And what would that be?"

She pressed herself against him, smiling with the confidence of someone who knows that she is about to get exactly what she desires. "You can do the laundry."

He began to laugh, looking strangely delighted by her request. "I would be very happy to take care of that for you," he said with a wicked grin, and abruptly rolled her over and spooned up behind her. "I'll take very good care of your delicates, I promise."

"How is it that you can make anything into a double entendre?" she asked with a laugh, arching back against him as he slipped his hand between her legs.

"They covered it in the seminar."

* * *

Jemma had to lead him to the kitchen, laundry in tow- he made a mental note to tell Koenig that in the future, orientation should include at least a bit of actual orienting- and she sat and watched with an appreciative smile on her face as he cooked. "Steve makes lovely pancakes," she said, "but I have missed the full Phil Coulson experience."

"I thought I gave you that earlier," he responded with a smile, and she laughed.

"I've gotten spoiled," she explained, leaning her chin on one hand. "Dinner and a show, one might say."

The look on her face was one of utter concentration, as if she were storing up the memory for the next time he was absent. He turned down the burner under the pan and leaned on the counter across from her. "I plan to stick around for a very long time."

"I should hope so," she replied, sliding her free hand across the counter to take his. "You still haven't taught me the tango."

"It's on my list. What are your feelings on swing? Lindy hop?"

"Of course you know the lindy hop," Clint said, appearing with a basket of laundry in his hands. "Not even Steve knows how to lindy, Phil. You might be the only person left in the world who knows how to lindy. I don't even think anyone taught you; I think you were born with the knowledge."

"I learned in college, actually," Phil replied mildly, and squeezed Jemma's hand quickly before moving back to the stove. "I even won a few contests."

"Of course you did." Clint dropped his basket next to theirs and began rummaging through the cabinets. "How's the littlest Coulson coming along, Jem?"

"Very well, thank you." She was giving Clint a contemplative look when Phil turned back to her. "If you can spare the time, could we spend an hour at the range, later?"

"Absolutely." Clint took a seat on the stool next to hers and ripped open his packet of poptarts. "Can I invite Nat?"

"Please," she replied, and smiled up at Phil when he put a plate in front of her. "I'd like to start training with her again, if she knows some exercises that are safe for me to do."

"I think we can figure something out. She won't let you do anything too strenuous."

"Tai chi," May said unexpectedly, appearing like a ghost around the corner. "Half an hour a day. Don't you think?" she asked Natasha over her shoulder.

"Good plan," Natasha agreed. "We can start this afternoon." She gave the poptarts in Clint's hand a disparaging look. "Lunch of champions, I see."

"Your dependence on a well-rounded diet will prove your undoing in the end," he replied, and ate another bite. "Also, you know what happens when I try to cook for myself."

"There are reasons I only let him do the scut work in the kitchen," Phil told Jemma quietly, an amused look on his face. "He can't be trusted with anything other than a vegetable peeler."

"Don't bother arguing," Natasha told Clint, who had clearly heard every word. "The last time I let you make pasta you nearly boiled the pot dry."

"But I didn't," he pointed out with wounded dignity. "And the pasta was still edible."

It was clear that Natasha disagreed on that point.

By the time they had finished their respective meals- which ranged from brunch to lunch to, in Clint's case, second breakfast- everyone except for Koenig had gathered in the kitchen. On first meeting Phil was inclined to like Triplett, who treated everyone in the room with what seemed to be the same kind of open-hearted respect that was so characteristic of Steve. The fact that Jemma was only somewhat cautious in his presence- just the slightest tense set to her shoulders, almost a bagatelle compared to the way she looked when discussing Garrett- was enough to confirm Phil's opinion.

Well, that and the stories. Listening to Triplett and Steve talk made him wish that he were morally bankrupt enough to secretly record their conversation. Maybe they would allow him to compile an oral history, when the dust had settled.

Jemma had tucked into her food with gusto, and after she had finished had discreetly taken his hand under the table, watching him watch the cross-generational reminisce with a look of such fondness that he was tempted to pull her onto his lap and cuddle her in the middle of the kitchen.

"As charming and historical as this is, Nat told me that if I didn't wash my socks, my life would be at stake," Clint announced. "Phil, are you coming?"

"I don't even know where the laundry is," he replied, suddenly realizing exactly how long he had been sitting there, distracted by the storytellers and Jemma's smile.

"I'll show you," Skye offered with a suspicious glint in her eyes, and beside him Jemma immediately snapped to attention.

"Skye," Jemma said sternly, pinning the other woman to the spot with a glare. "Behave."

Skye sighed. "Fine, fine. I'll be good." She held out her hand in a begrudging manner. "Pinky swear."

"The highest of all oaths," Clint observed solemnly. "Here, Skye, make a pinky swear with me. I can only assume you were planning on dumping us in an oubliette or something."

"I swear I will not leave you in an oubliette, a labyrinth, or any locked room," Skye said equally solemnly, shaking pinkies with him. "You want in on this, AC?"

He raised a brow. "Skye, I have never made a pinky swear in my life."

"Mine was made on his behalf," Jemma said, and patted his knee. "Don't worry, dear. I'm looking out for you."

Natasha slid casually into the seat he abandoned as he fetched the laundry basket, and as Skye led them below he heard the conversation shift from the Howling Commandos to training schedules.

"I don't understand how you made it to level eight without understanding the sanctity of the pinky swear, Phil," Clint continued as they followed Skye down the stairs. "And on a completely different note, we apparently just wandered into Silent Hill."

"I know, right?" Skye replied, flipping on lights as they passed them. "The pool's nice, but it doesn't make up for the weird cells and the hooks in the laundry room that I am pretty sure were bought from a slaughterhouse."

"Cells?" Phil asked, and pushed open a random door. "These, you mean?" He took in the bleak room with a quick glance, and then exchanged a look with Clint. "Jemma's seen this?"

"Yeah," Skye admitted, her expression suddenly serious. "I don't think she's set foot down here, since."

It was almost a mirror image of the room they had found her in so long ago- but then, white walls and minimalism lent themselves to that kind of unintentional parallelism.

"It's a good thing I like doing laundry," Phil said in a bland voice, shutting the door firmly.

"You're going to do something about Garrett, right?" Skye asked him as he separated the laundry into different piles. "He gave us all the creeps."

"I'm going to give Fury a call," he replied. "And if he insists on keeping Garrett here, then I will be having a serious discussion with him, as well."

"You would be better off letting Nat have that discussion," Clint said, haphazardly separating his own laundry in such a way that almost guaranteed his whites would shortly be an uneven pink. Neither Phil nor Skye said anything. "She would be delighted."

"I'm seriously considering it." He met Skye's eyes. "Was it just Jemma he was focused on?"

She pursed her lips together into a flat line. "He never caught me alone," she replied. "But he asked questions. Casual questions that weren't that casual. Where I grew up, who my parents were. That kind of stuff."

He knew from experience that Skye wasn't exactly fond of revealing more than the barest details of her childhood. "What did you tell him?"

"That I was the granddaughter of the lost Anastasia, and one day I would return to claim my throne," she replied nonchalantly, a glimmer of mischief in her otherwise straight expression. "He thought that was a very funny joke."

"He'll be the first to go once you're crowned czarina," Clint said as he tossed a load of clothing carelessly into one of the washers. "I hope you'll remember us, on that glorious day."

"Oh, I'll remember you, all right." She cocked her fingers at him in the semblance of a gun, a grin on her face. "I'm making a list, Barton. You're, like, nineteenth against the wall."

"I'm actually pretty insulted that I'm only nineteenth." He shook his head mournfully, ignoring Phil's smirk. "I bet Stark is at least five positions higher."

"Number thirty-one," she said, and shrugged at his squawk of outrage. "The benefits package really is very generous."

Skye pointed a finger sternly in Phil's direction. "And you-"

"_No way_ Phil is higher than me."

"-shape up, number seven."

* * *

To Phil's annoyance, Fury didn't give a shit. Garrett was the best, and Garrett was available, and Phil would put up with Garrett or lead his own damn missions for the foreseeable future.

Phil eventually acquiesced, his voice so calm and even that Fury groaned on the other end of the line. "For God's sake, Phil, do not let Romanov shank him in a hallway."

"Would the kitchen be preferable?" he asked mildly, and pulled the phone away from his ear when Fury let loose a flood of invective. "You promised me that my people would be safe," Phil said with gentle firmness when Fury paused to take a breath. "I realize that part of the problem is that we are all on edge, after the uprising, but if he doesn't mind his tongue then I can assure you that Natasha will rip it out."

"Stark leers at everyone including her, and he still manages to have a tongue," Fury replied acerbically. "What makes Garrett so deserving of her attentions?"

"Underneath it all, Stark respects Natasha," Phil answered simply. "It's the only reason she's let him live. Well," he added thoughtfully, "that and Nat's fondness for Pepper. Meanwhile, Garrett has managed to chase off every female specialist who has ever been assigned to his team."

"He gets results."

"That has always been a shitty excuse."

Fury sighed. "Look, I get it. Hill hates him, too, but we're in the middle of a hostile takeover at the moment, so let's table this temporarily. And yes, I'll tell Garrett to be on his best behavior."

It was as good a compromise as Phil was going to get, and he hung up the phone with a feeling of helpless frustration. That had been the lure of the Playground- safety. Safety for Jemma and the baby, and safety for everyone else who had managed to creep their way into his heart in one way or another.

He shouldn't be surprised that the seemingly perfect solution was nothing of the sort. Nothing ever was perfect, in his experience, but the part of him that remained an optimist was always disappointed by the inevitable outcome.

They would continue walking the halls in pairs and groups, for as long as he could enforce that rule. Eventually the restriction would chafe on the others- especially the three who technically needed the extra protection. Skye, Fitz, and Jemma had the least training, out of all of them (with the exception of Bruce, though Bruce himself didn't particularly need training, in the traditional sense), and as the weeks and months continued the most vulnerable of the three would obviously be Jemma, even with the time she had spent working with Natasha and Clint.

He didn't like keeping her contained, even if doing so were for her own safety. She'd spent enough time locked away, and he didn't want to be the one holding the keys.

With that unsettling thought in mind he left his office and the unfinished paperwork, and made his way through the halls. The greenhouse was empty, though he noted that someone had taken the time to bring the new additions to Jemma's garden from the Bus. He still hadn't told her about her gift, which had been an oversight on his part. Their slow, sleepy morning had naturally led to a late brunch, and from there laundry and work had distracted him for most of the afternoon.

He found the scientists three in one of the labs, bent over the ICER model that Jemma and Fitz had been working on shortly before her so-called transfer.

"No reason we can't make a smaller one," Fitz was saying as he entered. "Jemma, what about the bullets? Can you concentrate the dose?"

"With a bit of care," she answered in a thoughtful tone, jotting something down in a notebook. "Bruce?"

"Something that small could only be a close-range weapon." He tapped a key on a keyboard, and the molecular structure of something- Jemma's dendrotoxin, presumably- sprawled across a large screen. "Why make a gun? It would be too obvious. Model it like an epi-pen. Something small enough to slip into a pocket."

Jemma looked up at that moment and saw Phil in the doorway. "What do you think?" she asked, and gestured toward the ICER. "They think it would be best if we weren't openly carrying weapons."

Fury wouldn't be pleased to hear that his people were carrying concealed weapons on a secure base, but with trust being in short supply, Phil didn't give a damn. It wasn't as if his people weren't already armed. "Make it into a necklace," he suggested, and glanced at the pins holding Jemma's hair back. "A hairpin. Hell, a Medici poison ring."

Bruce seemed to consider the idea, then frowned. "Hairpins… too much risk of accidental exposure." He pointed a pen in Jemma's general direction, and Phil realized belatedly that it was the Mont Blanc Tony had handed him when they had departed. "Jemma, could a hairpin hold the correct dose? Have you ever scraped yourself with one?"

"For the latter, yes," she replied with a wry grin. "And I think the vehicle would need to be a bit larger than your average bobby pin. Though the ring..."

She gave them all a conspiratorial grin. "I've always fancied a poison ring."

"Obviously I will have to be very careful holding your hand from now on," Phil said dryly as he moved to stand beside her. "But I'm willing to make the sacrifice."

"What if we build in biometrics?" Fitz said excitedly, snapping his fingers at Phil's words. "Or a code word? Can't have Jem- or Skye," he added hurriedly, "accidentally zapping themselves with the dose."

"Or you," Jemma responded tartly. "And we can't all go around suddenly sporting matching rings like some secret society."

"Rings and engineering don't mix, generally," Fitz admitted. "Good way to lose a finger. Maybe a watch, for the gents."

"Cuff links," Jemma suggested, brushing a finger against one of Phil's. "Everyone should have something a little different, something that won't look out of character." She smiled up at him. "What would you like? A stylized, subtle version of Cap's shield, perhaps?"

"Are you going to design them for me?" he asked, touched. "I'm looking forward to seeing them."

"The only problem," said Bruce, ignoring their tender byplay, "is that they're essentially one-shot weapons- except for the cuff links."

"Their main advantage would be surprise," Jemma replied with a nod. "Drop someone once with a blast of dendrotoxin and they're hardly going to trust you again." She blushed slightly, no doubt remembering her encounter with Sitwell.

"You're right," Fitz acknowledged, "but we should figure out how to make a refill cartridge."

"We'd have to disguise them," Bruce said. "They might look suspicious."

Fitz glanced at them all sidelong, an excited glint in his eyes. "We could get a monkey-"

"Fitz," Jemma sighed quietly in protest.

"-and train it to hide with refills in the vents."

Phil kept as straight a face as possible, and replied. "Clint has better things to do."

* * *

"I just need to show you one thing," Phil said on their way to dinner, pressing his hand gently against her back. "Take a detour with me."

She followed him into the greenhouse as Fitz and Bruce continued to the kitchen, and stopped short a few steps into the room. "You brought me flowers," she said after a stunned moment, a smile growing on her face. "Drosera and cattleya."

"Science and sentiment." He curved his hands gently around her elbows and pulled her closer. "This isn't the happiest of places," he said quietly, slipping his arms around her back. "And it isn't as safe as I would like."

He looked guilty, the poor man. He tried so hard not to step on her toes, knowing her feelings on the matter, but his protective instincts were running high and had been for quite a while. "I'm going to do important work with those drosera," she said, snuggling closer even as a part of her mind was already spinning furiously, thinking of molecular bonds and plasticity and potential uses. It was just a small part of her mind, the part that was almost always working steadily in the background, and she kept most of her attention on him. "Thank you, Phil."

"I would have gotten you more," he said with a small smile, "but those were all they had."

She considered him thoughtfully, lacing her fingers together behind his neck. "Would it help if I let you fuss for a while?" she asked. "An evening without me fussing about your fussing?"

He seemed to be on the verge of making a flippant answer, then apparently reconsidered it. "Pinky swear?" he asked seriously, a tinge of humor sneaking into his expression, and released her so that he could proffer his right hand.

"From now until midnight," she agreed with a smile, hooking their fingers together. "Do I get to know what's on your agenda?"

"Let's have dinner first," he replied. "I'm thinking."

They didn't linger after eating, leaving as the others began debating the best movie selection for the evening. "Would you like a bath?" he asked as he opened the door to their quarters, and scooped up one of her hands to kiss her palm. "Fussing is one thing, Jem, but you still get veto power."

"Do I have to take the bath alone?"

He grinned and began unknotting his tie. "Fussing is easier to accomplish when you're within arm's length."

She let him help her into the tub, and lay back against his firm chest when he joined her. He hid his strength under his suits and crisp white shirts, only revealing a hint of it on the rare occasions when he rolled up his shirt sleeves to bare his forearms. Jemma didn't bother hiding her smile as she stroked her fingers along those same arms now. _Mine_.

"Are you comfortable?" he asked, his arms wrapped securely around her ribs. "What can I do for you, dear?"

"I'm very comfortable," she assured him, and draped one of her legs over one of his. "You're just trying to lull me to sleep, aren't you?"

"Guilty." He chuckled quietly, the vibrations rumbling against her back. "If I do my job right, you'll be asleep well before midnight."

"You're going to sleep too, right?" She twisted slightly to look up at him. "No sneaking off to fill out paperwork."

"I promise." He kissed her forehead softly and moved one hand to the curve of her stomach. "Just relax."

It wasn't that hard to relax, tucked up against him, and by the time they moved to the bed she was already half-asleep. She smiled contentedly as he began to gently massage her back while she lay on her side.

"Might have to let you fuss more often," she said with a yawn, letting her eyelids slip closed. "S'nice."

"Let yourself sleep," he murmured in a coaxing tone, and pressed a kiss against the curve of one hip. "I'll still be here in the morning."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

* * *

She startled awake beside him in the early hours of the morning, her breathing ragged and fast-paced.

"Jemma?" He raised himself up on one elbow and touched her arm lightly, feeling a slight tremor run through her. "Is it the baby?"

"No- yes, but not in the way you mean." She sat up as he reached for the lamp, and gave him a somewhat sheepish smile when he turned back to face her. "It's nothing; just a bad dream."

Her look was still a bit wild, a complete change from the contented, languid state she had been in when he had finally tucked the covers around her. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She was quiet for a moment, her hands curved over her stomach. "It's not uncommon for pregnant women to have _Rosemary's Baby_-esque nightmares."

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and placed his other hand over hers. "You dreamt that you gave birth to the devil?"

"No." She looked irritated now, though he sensed it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with what she perceived as her own irrationalities. "It's just that we were both injected with GH325, and I dreamt that- it's ridiculous." She sighed. "I dreamed that I gave birth to an alien."

"Huh." The possibility hadn't even occurred to him, but then, she was the one who had actually taken a look at the drug's molecular structure. "We need to do an ultrasound, anyway. That should tell us whether or not we need to tentacle-proof the nursery."

The look on her face- a mixture of flabbergasted amusement and absolute horror- quickly resolved into a fit of laughter. "Tentacles? _Tentacles_. Really, Phil?"

"Very cute tentacles," he assured her. "They could be useful for all manner of things. Getting stuff off of high shelves, juggling, very firm hugs."

"Oh, no." She hiccuped suddenly. "I was more afraid that the baby would be blue. I hadn't even thought about extra appendages."

"Blue's okay, too. It's a nice color."

"You're being very laissez-faire about this," she said wryly. "You really would just smile and tell me I did an excellent job if I gave birth to a blue, tentacled infant?"

"I'm very easy to please." He leaned his head against hers. "And now we have a good answer for the next time someone asks us what we're hoping for."

"'We're hoping for a human'?" she replied with a laugh. "Well, I suppose we are."

"With ten fingers and ten toes in all the right places, and yes, blue eyes and dimples, per your orders." He turned his head slightly to kiss her forehead before nuzzling his nose against her hair. "I'm also hoping to see echoes of your lovely nose and lips on his or her face."

"I like your nose," she protested. "I'm very fond of your whole face, actually." She ran a light finger down his profile, smiling. "My handsome husband."

He almost felt handsome, when she smiled at him like that. "Lie back down with me," he said, coaxing her down. "You always do brilliant work, Jemma, and I know that you are going to produce an excellent baby."

She laughed quietly as she settled herself against his side, making several small changes to her position until she seemed to find one that worked for her. "You made some valuable contributions to the process."

"I gave you half the blueprints," he replied dismissively. "Which was an honor, and an enjoyable one at that," he added, brushing his fingers across her stomach. "But I know who's doing the real work."

She averted her eyes suddenly, worry drifting back into her expression. "I want to give you a perfect baby," she whispered. "I want- I'm worried that if the baby inherits something odd that SHIELD will take him or her away."

"That is not going to happen." Over his dead body would that happen, but he wasn't fool enough to say that in front of Jemma. She sniffled, and an indisputable tear splashed against his skin. "Jemma, they would be fools to go up against us. We're both forces to be reckoned with, in our own ways, and there are a number of very powerful people who are looking forward to being honorary aunts and uncles- and godparents."

"We never did ask them," she murmured.

"I don't think they are going to turn us down," he replied dryly. "And only someone truly insane would try to abduct the godchild of the Black Widow. We might as well tattoo 'property of the Avengers' on the baby as soon as he or she is born."

"True," she admitted after a moment.

"And the baby is going to be perfect." He ran his fingers through her hair, appreciating its weight and silky texture. "I don't care if the baby has tentacles or nictitating membranes or a predisposition to hay fever. Any way the baby comes will be perfect."

"Nictitating membranes could be useful," she mused in that tone of voice that was pure scientist.

"Like tentacles."

"Easier to hide," she pointed out, sounding amused. "I am due for an ultrasound. I'll ask Bruce to do one."

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, smiling. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," she agreed. "And I know I said we should let it be a surprise, but…"

The blaze of excitement he felt at her words surprised him- not the excitement itself, but the depth of it. "I want to know."

She laughed. "I do, too."

"At least we'll know the right pronoun to use," he teased gently.

"Proper pronouns are important," she agreed, and pulled him down for a kiss. "It would be… a shame… to use third person neuter… for the baby," she continued, the words coming out in bursts when they broke for air.

"Grammar talk from my scientist wife," he murmured playfully, nipping at her earlobe. "It's almost naughty. Conjugate something for me, dear."

She giggled, squirming in his grip. "Je baise, tu baises, il / elle / on baise, nous baisons, vous baisez, ils / elles baisent," she listed in fluidly accented French, her hand suddenly wrapped gently around the most sensitive part of him.

"I have a fairly good idea what that meant," he said, feeling a bit light-headed. "Is that an order?"

"Baise-moi," was her smiling reply, and he didn't need any more convincing than that.

* * *

_Notes:_

_1. In French, un baiser is a kiss. The verb baiser, however, while still technically meaning 'to kiss', is more often used for the more vulgar 'to fuck'. If you are ever in a position to ask someone to kiss you in French, I would suggest using the verb s'embrasser instead._

_2. You will never convince me that Phil Coulson, smooth cat that he is, does not know the lindy hop._


	35. Taxus baccata

_Maidens, gather not the yew,_  
_Leave the glossy myrtle sleeping;_  
_Any lad was born untrue,_  
_Never a one is fit your weeping._

_Pretty dears, your tumult cease;_  
_Love's a fardel, burthening double._  
_Clear your hearts, and have you peace-_  
_Gangway, girls: I'll show you trouble._  
-_Prologue to a Saga_, Dorothy Parker

"Dammit, man, I'm a physicist, not an ultrasound technician," Bruce said with a resigned sigh. "I can operate the equipment safely, but I'm not qualified to actually read the results."

"You can tell a head from a foot, presumably," Jemma replied with an encouraging smile, maneuvering herself onto the examination table. "And I'm not exactly ignorant."

"True." He gave them both a serious look. "I wouldn't take any predictions I might make about the sex to heart, though. I might mistake the umbilical cord for a penis. You just don't know."

"We're willing to take the risk," Phil said in a mild tone, taking Jemma's hand.

"That would be an exceptional long penis," she said dryly, raising a brow. "I don't think you'll be making that mistake."

"We can only hope." Bruce popped open the tube of ultrasound gel. "Fine. Pull up your shirt, Jemma."

She hesitated for barely a second before doing so, and as Phil watched the only discernable reaction that Bruce made was a slow blink and the slight tightening of his jawline.

And then it was over, and Jemma was complaining teasingly about how cold the gel was against her skin.

"You did spring this on me an hour ago," Bruce pointed out, a small smile on his face as he situated the transducer against the swell of her stomach. "I didn't really have time to observe the niceties."

If they had chosen to have this done back at Stark Tower, there probably would have been not only a fleet of ultrasound techs, but the latest in ultrasonographic technology at their disposal. What appeared on the screen was not a crisp 3D image, but it was clear enough.

"Oh," said Jemma softly, tightening her grip on his hand. "Oh."

"No tentacles," he commented playfully, and kissed her fingers before tucking a handkerchief in her free hand.

"No," Bruce agreed, shaking his head slightly. "Definitely no tentacles. As for the sex, I am afraid you are both going to have to wait." He gestured toward the screen. "Secret agent baby is mooning us."

Jemma laughed, dabbing away a few tears. "We'll just have to think of a nickname, then."

He briefly considered suggesting E.T., then decided that even if Jemma found it funny, it would only lead to uncomfortable questions from everyone else.

"Do you have a guess?" Bruce asked, moving the transducer slightly. "About the sex, I mean."

Jemma hesitated, a thoughtful expression on her face. "A girl, I think. I don't know why." She tilted her head slightly to the side, studying the screen. "You can see a bit of her- of the baby's profile, there. I think she did get your nose," she said with a grin, glancing up at Phil.

"I'm sorry about that," he replied jokingly, somewhat breathless at the idea of a daughter. He would have been equally breathless if she had guessed a boy. He was inclined to feel rather breathless over the baby in general, regardless of the sex. "I'm sure it will look dignified on her."

Dear God, his nose on someone else's face. A little girl with curls and Jemma's smile and his nose running across a lawn calling for Daddy. It was like a punch to the stomach, though a strangely pleasant one.

"You know how I feel about your nose," she said softly, stroking her thumb across his palm as she stared up at him. "I like it quite a bit."

"Here's the heartbeat," Bruce said after a moment of silence, and the sound spilled through the speakers, echoing and vibrant. "Nice and steady," he said approvingly, angling himself slightly away from the two of them.

Jemma pressed the handkerchief briefly against her eyes, her hand tight around his. "Our little sprout," she said with a laugh a moment later, pulling away the handkerchief. "Just one heartbeat, thankfully."

"I was almost expecting twins," he admitted, flashing her a grin. "Efficient as you are."

"That's a bit too efficient, even for me." She looked back toward the screen, her gaze tender, but he found that he couldn't look away from her. Even the stray wisps of hair around her hairline captivated him, and he gently laid his hand against her head, suddenly remembering the bright smile she had given him on the day that he had recruited her onto the team. It was the first one she had ever given him, and he had seen a multitude of others, since, varying in meaning and depth: polite and reserved as she waited for orders; the frantic, caffeinated grin she wore at the end of a long, sleepless mission; the sensual curl of her lips as she reclined after a lengthy romp in bed.

His favorite, though- without a doubt- was the sleepy, satisfied smile he received when she woke up beside him in the morning, and the way she invariably reached for him without a word.

She tipped her head back as he began to stroke her hair with the tips of his fingers, strands occasionally catching on the calluses on his hands which had been formed by years of practice at the gun range. She kept his gaze, her own expression soft and patient, as Bruce quietly printed one of the screenshots and turned off the machine. He left, leaving the photo and a clean towel folded neatly on a nearby table.

Phil couldn't trust in his ability to speak at that moment, at least not coherently. Jemma scooted a few inches to her right, leaving him just enough space to perch on the edge of the table. She pulled a folded handkerchief from her pocket and presented it to him with a smile. "You've got me in the habit," she explained, "though I admit that I prefer when you supply them personally."

He was fairly sure that he had been a child the last time someone had offered him a handkerchief, and that person had been his mother. He took the handkerchief from her and bent to kiss the crown of her head, not surprised when a tear slipped past his guard to splash against her hair.

"Once again, you've overwhelmed me," he said when he could trust himself to speak. "You're very good at that."

"It shouldn't be a surprise at this point," she teased gently, taking one of his hands between her own. She kissed his fingertips one by one and ended with a firm kiss against his palm. "My little sky-diving incident, the grenade, the-"

He straightened quickly, staring at her with a suspicious gaze. "What grenade?"

Jemma frowned, keeping her grip on his hand. "On the train."

He scanned his memory quickly, searching for any incident that involved anything remotely like a grenade, and came up blank. He could remember with almost perfect accuracy her bewildering speech about Victorians in the Cotswolds and prostitutes, but not one iota about a grenade.

"Jemma," he said slowly, "what grenade?"

"Oh." She released his hand to brush her hair back, her frown turning thoughtful. "We never did a proper debrief afterward, did we? What with Skye and all." Jemma's expression was almost embarrassed, which did nothing for his heart rate. "After you left, I made my way to the baggage car to find Fitz and Skye, and one of the soldiers surprised us."

He had never thought to ask her how she had ended up, muddled and wild-eyed, in the baggage car in the first place, and he was paying for it now. "He threw a grenade at you?" he asked, knowing that the soldier had done nothing of the sort.

"Ah, no. He was going to throw it at Skye and Fitz…"

She trailed off, no doubt as a reaction to the look of horror on his face.

"You threw yourself on the grenade," he said flatly, wondering why he was at all surprised. Of course she had thrown herself onto a grenade. At that point she would have no way of knowing that it was anything other than an incendiary device, and she had still thrown herself onto it, just like she had thrown herself out of the Bus and destroyed the Guest House.

"Yes," she admitted, and bit her lip.

He wasn't sure which of the conflicting emotions currently roiling within him was the strongest: the retrospective terror he felt at having nearly lost her to her own reckless bravery, or the sudden breathless awe which reminded him that he definitely had a thing for self-sacrificing underdogs turned heroes.

In the end, he satisfied both urges by picking her up bodily from the table and sitting in a nearby chair, holding her tightly against him. For a moment she held herself stiffly, pulling back as far as she could from him. "Your suit," she protested when he tightened his hold, and she placed a hand against the side of his face, her gaze concerned.

"I have other suits," he replied dismissively, turning his head to kiss her palm, and at his words she relaxed against him. "I only have one wife."

"I certainly hope so," she murmured in an amused tone, and kissed his cheek. "I promise that next time someone pulls out a grenade I will run in the opposite direction."

"You had better." He pulled her hand away from his face and pressed it against his chest. "And no more jumping out of planes without parachutes."

"I promise." She narrowed her eyes slightly. "In return, you will avoid confronting certain Asgardians by yourself."

"If at all possible, yes." From the look on her face it was obvious that she didn't like that answer, and he clarified. "If he gets his hands on you again, I'm coming for you, whether or not I can find someone to guard my back."

She took in a deep breath, worry in her eyes. "Well, I'll just have to avoid being abducted again," she said with false cheer. "And now you need to change and get some work done."

"Do I get a kiss first?" he asked, placing his thumb gently against her lower lip. "To get me through the day?"

She nodded slightly, her mouth curling into a smile, and met him in a slow, thorough kiss, her hands clutching the lapels of his ruined suit.

"I'll give you another at lunch," she said cheekily as she stood, the remains of the gel still smeared across her stomach. The rest was, of course, now coating his suit jacket. "I think you might need it."

"Probably." He picked up the towel that Bruce had left behind, as well as the picture, and handed the latter to Jemma. "Hold still while I get rid of the rest of this," he said as he ran the cloth over her skin.

"We might be able to get that out," she said thoughtfully, staring at his jacket. "Though I suppose it's hardly the worst thing that has gotten on one of your suits, over the course of your career."

It wasn't blood or sewage or acid, so she was indeed correct. "I have tricks," he told her with a grin, and pitched the towel into a nearby hamper. "And it's not my favorite, so no big loss if it's unsalvageable."

"We're stuck on a secret base. I think tailored suits are a little hard to come by, here." Her hand slipped into his as they left the room, and she moved a few inches closer to him. "Which is a pity," she continued softly, "because there is something about all those little buttons on your shirts that makes me want to jump on top of you."

There were times when her innuendo nearly made his eyes cross, and this was looking to be one of those times. He glanced up and down the hallway. Empty, though there was always the possibility of someone hiding in a vent. "Is that so?"

"Particularly when you've rolled up your shirt sleeves," she added in a helpful tone, a mischievous look on her face. "You have such lovely forearms."

"Hold that thought, if you would," he said, even as she released his hand and slid her arm into the crook of his elbow. She placed her other hand on his forearm, curling her fingers lightly over the fabric of his jacket.

Once safely in their quarters Jemma unbuttoned his jacket with quick and efficient fingers, and stood back as he selected a new suit to change into. She sat on the edge of the bed as he stripped off his trousers, not bothering to hide her interested gaze.

When they had first begun having sex, he hadn't been surprised by their mutual high sex drives. They had been in that initial honeymoon phase that accompanied a good sexual relationship, driven by an enthusiasm for discovery and the hunger that had been building for months beforehand. If his refractory period was shorter than it once had been, he wrote it off as an unintended side effect of his resurrection, along with all the other little things that no longer bothered him. He hadn't been sick once in his second life, not even with the briefest cold. Headaches, yes, but they could always be traced directly back to stress. His mild seasonal allergies had disappeared completely, and his sensitivity to lactose was no longer a concern. Other than the nightmares and the bouts with insomnia, he felt like a much younger man.

He did occasionally wonder if the chemistry between himself and Jemma was at least partially driven by their exposure to GH325- if they had, in effect, become some kind of unintentional breeding pair- but it wasn't a thought he liked to dwell on, and it wasn't a possibility he intended to bring up with Jemma. He didn't believe that alien chemistry was the foundation of their relationship, and he didn't want her worrying that it was.

Of course, knowing Jemma, it was probably something she had already considered and dismissed. From the point of view of a biochemist, the science of attraction did not necessarily devalue the more spiritual, harder to quantify idea of love.

"Aren't you going to change your shirt, too?" she asked him, a too-innocent expression on her face.

"There isn't anything on my shirt," he replied, smiling, and walked over to her. She immediately reached out and began slipping the buttons free from their buttonholes, slipping her hands inside the gap to splay over his undershirt. "Do you need some attention, love?"

"I would appreciate it," she said honestly, and brushed a thumb across one of his nipples. "I feel practically insatiable, these days. It's lovely, but it's also very frustrating."

He glanced at the clock. He was late beginning work in the first place, and he was fairly certain that May and Natasha would be expecting Jemma shortly for their take on prenatal calisthenics.

"Come here," he said with a smile, taking a seat on the bed with his back against the pillows. "Sit between my legs."

"I can take care of it myself," she said as she leaned back against his chest, "but it isn't nearly as fun." She sighed at the first stroke of his fingers. "The calluses add that nice bit of friction, and- oh, fuck, that's nice."

She had let her head rest against his shoulder, and he looked down into her face, watching as her eyelids slipped closed and the blush heightened in her cheeks. She bit her bottom lip with a moan, and after a moment opened her eyes and met his gaze with a look of such trust that he felt floored.

He held her for a few minutes more after she had shaken apart at his hands, murmuring loving words against her hair that he only partially remembered afterward.

"Well," she said cheerfully once her breathing had regulated, "that should hold me until after dinner."

"One hopes," he replied teasingly. "Though servicing you is one of my more pleasurable duties."

Her laugh was bright and unconstrained. "Servicing me? What an interesting choice of words."

"Perhaps 'seeing to your every need' would be a better phrase." He tightened his arms around her and checked the clock again. "Natasha will be looking for you soon."

"A good point." She stretched with a purr-like hum, making him temporarily reconsider his decision for this to only be a quick break before returning to his desk. "Thank you."

He brushed his nose against her hair, smelling the hint of roses left by her shampoo. "Not a problem, dearest."

* * *

They had four days free of Garrett's shadow, and Jemma savored every one of them. Never having a moment to herself outside of their quarters was not as irritating, somehow, when there was less of a reason for the extra caution. She was too busy, in any case, to dwell for too long on the occasional desire to walk down a hallway by herself. Skye joined her for her hours at the range with Clint, and for the gentle exercises that May and Natasha led her through to improve her flexibility and stamina. Other than meals and a brief nap after lunch, the rest of her time was spent divided between the greenhouse and the lab down the hall, working with Bruce and Fitz.

Phil spent most of his time in his office, save for the more rigorous training sessions he put in with the others, but he made a point of lending a hand with every meal, and left his work behind a locked door at the end of the day. The stress wore on him, to her eyes, but he was jovial with the others and one evening gave in to Skye's pleas for pizza and a movie.

"I'm glad you learned _something_ during that undercover op at the pizzeria," Natasha said with a smirk as she watched him expertly toss a round of dough. "I seem to remember that it went south pretty quickly."

"Only because of that surprise health inspection," Phil replied wryly. "Generally restaurants don't stay open when the health inspector finds a litter of mice in the pantry."

"Mice you planted there," Clint said.

"Better he find the mice than the cache of illegal weapons in cold storage." Phil spread the dough out onto the first pan, and slid it over to Skye for sauce and toppings. "I've had worse ops."

It was a good thing that the Playground was set up with an industrial oven, because the number of pizzas required to feed one super soldier and ten other adults would have been impossible to churn out in any respectable period of time in a normal oven. Jemma, whose general distaste for tomatoes continued, had her own small pizza, which she happily loaded with spinach, chicken, parmesan, and pineapple. She devoured it over the first half of the movie (the MST3K version of _Puma Man_, which Skye claimed to have chosen in honor of the number of super heroes in residence), and fell asleep with her head on Phil's lap at some point in the second half.

She didn't wake up until he was carrying her back to their quarters, and her first sleepy blink over his shoulder was met with Clint crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out at her.

"Such solemnity," she told him with a yawn. "Such gravitas."

"We can't all be brilliant British biochemists," he said, tweaking her nose between two fingers. "Some of us are ex-carnies shooting shit with pointed sticks."

"You're pretty good with those pointed sticks." She reached out and poked him in the shoulder, then glanced up at Phil. "Am I too heavy? I can walk."

"Jemma, you're light as a feather." He leaned his head against hers, a slight smile on his face. "We're almost there, anyway."

She tucked her head back against his shoulder and curled her arms loosely around his neck, hiding her smile. She did enjoy his pampering, and especially enjoyed being the beneficiary of these casual displays of strength.

Clint entered the room ahead of them, performing a check without being asked as Phil put her back on her feet. "So, I think that Trip is solid," Clint said as he poked into the corners of the closet. "Even Nat likes him. Your thoughts?"

"I'm not as trusting as I used to be," Phil replied, shrugging off his jacket. "Though in the pre-Hydra days, I probably would have liked him a great deal."

"I think he's genuine," Jemma offered as she pulled the elastic out of her hair. "He's always been perfectly respectful towards everyone."

"He flirts with Skye," Clint pointed out as he left the bathroom.

"Because Skye flirts with him," she said with a shrug. "He never crosses any lines, and they both enjoy it. No harm done."

"True," Clint acknowledged, moving to the door. "Night, you crazy kids. Get some sleep."

"You really trust him?" Phil asked her later, when they were both tucked into bed. "I'm almost afraid that my enthusiasm for all things Captain America has overruled my good judgment."

"I do," she replied after a moment. "We can't afford to alienate someone who might be an ally, not right now- and Steve is an excellent judge of character. As far as I can tell, he considers Trip a friend."

She moved closer, smiling when he slipped his hand under the hem of her shirt to caress her stomach. "How is our little bird?" he asked, placing his other arm around her shoulders. "Is she moving yet?"

"Trust me, Phil, you will know the second I feel even a flutter," she assured him, placing a hand on his thigh. "I don't think I'll be able to keep it a secret from anyone."

"You look so lovely," he said softly, nuzzling his nose against her hair. "I don't tell you often enough. You really do glow."

"Do I?" She smiled and caught him in a kiss. "You don't think I'm getting fat?"

"Lush," he corrected. "Voluptuous. Stunning."

"Very nice adjectives," she said approvingly. "What a romantic you are."

"Alluring and seductive also come to mind," he continued, pulling her shirt over her head. "And buxom."

"Did you spend your summer breaks reading the thesaurus?" she asked him with a grin as he loosened her braid. "It's a very attractive quality."

"I'll have you know that I obtained my large vocabulary from comic books," he replied, cupping one breast lightly. "They aren't comprised solely of onomatopoeias."

"I'm glad to hear it." She tugged at the hem of his own shirt, distracting him from his scrutiny of her breasts. "Take this off and tell me more."

"Well," he began, pulling off his shirt, "the ones about Cap were the best written, of course."

"Of course," she agreed, straddling him and running her hands down his chest. "Though I'm not sure we should be talking about Steve in bed. I'm petty enough to want all your attention on me."

"I'm happy to give it to you." His hands settled on her hips, and the devoted look in his eyes was enough to make her breath catch in her throat. "Where would you like my attention first?"

"Here," she said decisively, and pulled him in for a kiss.

* * *

"You're bringing _who_ back?" Phil asked in disbelief, leaning back in his chair with the phone in his hand.

"She calls herself Lady Sif," Garrett replied casually. "One of Thor's pals. You met her in New Mexico, right?"

"I did." Phil rubbed a hand across his forehead, then smirked. Garrett wouldn't dare misbehave with Sif around. "And what brings Lady Sif to Earth?"

"Apparently some other Asgardian has shown up to cause trouble." Garrett's tone was dismissive. "The lady is here to take charge, for some reason. She's a looker, at the very least. I didn't think armor fit like that outside of German operas."

"On a somewhat related note, we need to discuss something."

"Yeah, Fury mentioned that I had the ladies in a tizzy." Garrett chuckled. "I'll be good, Phil. I have no desire to wake up in the middle of night to find Romanov sitting at the end of my bed with a knife."

He'd be lucky to wake up at all, if Natasha decided to do away with him- but Phil figured that was Garrett's problem, at this point. "Just remember your manners, please."

"I'll mind my Ps and Qs. We'll be arriving around lunch tomorrow. Save us some seats at the table, okay? We'll be hungry."

Garrett's appetite was legendary. Phil scribbled a note on a nearby piece of paper to order more supplies. "I'm sure we'll find something to feed you," he said, feeling a surge of relief at the idea of Sif reining in the worst of John's tendencies. Maybe he could convince her to stay for the duration.

The rest of the morning was low key, other than a call from Fury informing him of a minor skirmish on the campus of the science academy. The nest of Hydra operatives hiding amongst the faculty seemed to have been quashed, at least for the moment. He copied the list of names out carefully for Jemma and Fitz to peruse.

He handed the list to Jemma at lunch with a brief explanation of the event in question, and she tsked as she ran her finger down the roll. "I'm not surprised by a few of these names," she said finally, handing the list to Fitz. "Though I am surprised by Professor Miller. She was my advisor in our second year. Do you remember her, Fitz?"

"Seemed as loyal as the day was long," he agreed. "And Jacobi? He's ninety-one and an emeritus. Did he try to smack someone with his cane?"

"He shot a first year in the stomach with a Glock," Phil replied wearily. "One of the few casualties- there were only three deaths among the loyalists, total. The insurgents, on the other hand, lost an even dozen- and four of those died from severe burns when a group of students poured boiling oil on them from the roof of one of the dorms."

Natasha looked as if she were seriously considering visiting the science academy to try and snag a few new recruits. "How very old school," she said approvingly. "I'm going to need their names, Phil."

"You can't steal scientists from SHIELD, Nat," he said with a shake of his head.

"Why not?" Jemma and Fitz asked simultaneously, then exchanged a glance.

"She can certainly afford to offer a good salary," Jemma said reasonably. "What about benefits, Tasha?"

Natasha shook her head. "I thought it would be interesting to act as a headhunter for Pepper."

"If they refuse, would you be bringing her their heads?" Clint joked, though there was something in his expression that made Phil think it was a serious question.

"Nah." Natasha examined her nails, smirking. "If they want to miss out on such an excellent employment opportunity, that's punishment enough."

"Thank God," Clint muttered, and bit into his sandwich.

Jemma pulled Phil to the side after lunch, and lowered her voice. "Could you come to the lab before you go back to work? We have a few things to show you."

Once in the lab she placed a small tray carefully on one of the tables, and looked toward Bruce and Fitz. "We haven't finished pieces for everyone yet," she explained as he took a careful look at the items on the tray. "But it's a start. See, we modified Fitz's watch, and this bracelet is for Skye. These," she said, touching a pair of cufflinks lightly, "are for you."

They were an exquisite piece of work- Cap's iconic shield represented in silver and rose gold, and try as he might he couldn't see how they could contain anything remotely dangerous.

"They're all triggered with a particular code word," Bruce said, sliding a list across the table. "Say the code, and then press them against skin. It should take out nearly anyone instantly- unless that someone is Steve, in which case you're screwed."

He scanned the list, committing it quickly to memory. _Periodontal_ for his cufflinks, _grandiloquence_ for Skye's bracelet, _zeitgeist_ for Jemma's ring…

He looked back toward the tray and picked up the ring in question. Dainty and well-balanced, almost art deco in design. "These all have the full dose?" he asked, holding the ring up to the light. "This is some very impressive work."

"Yes," confirmed Fitz excitedly, and pulled out another tray with miniscule pellets neatly arranged across its expanse. At a quick glance, they almost appeared to be baby aspirin. He placed several neatly in a small pillbox, which he handed to Phil. "Once activated and deployed, the holding compartment cannot retract until it has been refilled."

"Brilliant," Phil said after another moment of inspection, and held out his hand to Jemma. With a smile she gave him her right hand, lifting the index finger slightly. The ring was a perfect fit. "Excellent work, all of you."

"Let me help you with yours," she said softly, and carefully fitted the cufflinks into place. They peeked out from underneath the sleeves of his jacket, the two different metals a more subtle contrast than ordinary gold and silver would have been. "There you are," she said with a pleased expression, tweaking the cuffs straight. "Be careful who you discuss dentistry with," she teased, and glanced toward the others. They were bent over another table, facing away from them, and she gave him a quick kiss.

"I'll see you at dinner," he promised, brushing his thumb across her cheek. "Garrett's back tomorrow, I'm afraid."

Bruce only gave a restrained eye roll at that news, but Fitz immediately broke into a stream of heavily accented profanity and Jemma's expression turned crestfallen.

"If it helps, one of Thor's friends will be coming with him," Phil offered, and smiled slightly. "He'll be much better behaved around Lady Sif. I'm willing to guarantee it."

"If even half the stories Thor tells about her are true, we're in for a show," Bruce agreed. "She's going to get along great with Natasha and May."

"I like her already," Jemma said with a relieved sigh, and pushed Phil gently toward the door. "Back to your paperwork, dear. One more relaxed night, and then the hordes invade."

"What a way with words you have."

* * *

From the moment Sif strode off of the plane, Jemma knew that they were going to get along just fine.

The fact that Garrett- and his two new lackeys- followed her with circumspect expressions that would not have looked out of place on Steve was just a bonus, really.

"Son of Coul," she said warmly, stopping in front of Phil. "There are few warriors who face Loki and live."

"I had some help with that," he replied, a wry tinge to his voice. "And I certainly didn't emerge unscathed."

"A warrior is nothing without a few scars." She turned her piercing gaze on Jemma, and her smile, when it came, was approving. "Would you be the clever Lady Jemma? There are even fewer who best Loki at his own games."

"Luck," Jemma demurred with a cheerful smile. "He made the mistake of underestimating me."

"Some luck," Sif acknowledged as they began to walk deeper into the facility. "Luck in battle is no small thing. But courage- you must be very courageous, to act as you did."

Jemma had considered her actions as reckless, foolhardy, and downright stupid in turns. Courageous had never really made the list.

"Jemma has always impressed me with her bravery," Phil said unexpectedly, resting his hand lightly on her lower back. "Her exploits are becoming rather legendary."

"You are well-mated," Sif said with a nod, giving Phil a favorable look, as if by praising Jemma's bravery he had confirmed her opinion of his good character. "Your daughters will be great warriors."

Presumably their sons would be as well, though Jemma thought it was rather sweet that Sif thought specifically of their daughters. Perhaps Sif, as a warrior, was considered odd even among the Asgardians.

Sif proceeded straight to business once they met with the others in one of the larger meeting rooms. Her calculating gaze swept across the team as a whole, though she seemed to make a point to give brief nods of recognition to Natasha, Steve, May, and, of all people, Fitz. To Jemma's knowledge Sif had never met any of them before, but perhaps she had heard stories- or perhaps had singled them out by some instinct.

"The woman I am seeking will not be easy to catch," she began grimly. "But the Allfather fears the damage she might do if left to her own devices- and I, too, have such fears. Lorelei's enchantments have brought worlds to ruin, in the past."

"She's a magician? Of the double, double, toil and trouble sort?" Clint asked, then clarified at Sif's blank look. "Calling fires out of thin air and the like?"

"No," Sif replied with a firm shake of her head. "Her powers lie solely in enchanting men, and convincing them to follow her every order. Most fall at the sound of her voice, but a touch will ensnare even the most stubborn."

"Just men?" Natasha raised a brow, even as she cut a sharp glance at Garrett, who seemed entertained by the entire idea. "How interesting."

"Men have an inherent weakness that we do not share," Sif said simply, and Jemma pressed her lips tightly together to hold back a laugh.

"I can't imagine what she's talking about," Fitz muttered across the table, but with a slight, self-deprecating smile.

"So what are we supposed to do?" Garrett asked, leaning back against the wall. "Send in our guys in scuba suits with cotton balls in their ears?"

Sif's laugh was entirely unamused. "I will take no men at all," she informed him, then nodded toward the women in the room. "Shield-sisters only. I am sure that you are more than capable of maintaining order here," she said unexpectedly to Jemma. "I leave them in your charge."

Jemma was unsure if Sif had mistaken her for the leader, or if she knew that Phil was in charge and had chosen to disregard that knowledge entirely. She guessed the latter, and a quick glance at Phil as Garrett made loud protestations told her that Phil was deeply amused by Sif's words, and in no way insulted by them.

Garrett was the only protester in the room, but he somehow made enough noise for six. "You're going to need the back-up," he was saying, gesturing emphatically. "This is war, not _Sailor Moon_."

"Oh, please shut up," Clint said suddenly. "Don't be an idiot, Garrett. Anyone with a Y chromosome would be a liability on this mission, not an asset. I, for one, will be staying right here."

"Not surprising, given your history," Garrett replied with sly innuendo. "No disrespect meant to the ladies, but if this Lorelei is gathering an army, you'll need more than a handful of people to go up against her."

"Perhaps you've forgotten their reputations," Steve said as the wiser souls in the room shifted slightly away from Natasha, who was fingering the hilt of a knife significantly. "They're not society dames who've never handled a weapon. Though," he added thoughtfully, "I've met more than a few such ladies who were dangerous enough without a weapon."

"They're right," Phil said in an easy, mild voice. "Let Sif take May, Natasha, and Skye. We're of no use to them, this time."

Garrett seemed as if he might challenge that point, then shrugged. "I hope you brought your embroidery, Kaminsky," was all he said, turning toward the door.

Clint rolled his eyes in disdain. "Embroidery takes a great deal of skill," he muttered. "I'd like to see him try french knots."

Sif made no mention of Garrett's departure, though her jaw tightened slightly. "It is settled, then," she said calmly, and a glimmer of a smile broke through the mask she wore. "And our warriors are taught needlework to instill patience and dexterity."

"Does it work?" Skye asked with interest.

"Thor's needlework is quite adept," Sif replied. "Volstagg, on the other hand, has a tendency to tangle the thread in his beard. I do not believe he had ever managed to finish a project."

"Thor and I have so many new things to talk about." Clint shook his head, an amazed look on his face. "And here I thought he just threw hammers around for fun."

"If we might adjourn?" Sif said, turning to her new shield-sisters. "We have much to discuss."

The men all turned to Jemma once Sif and the others had left. "What?" she asked, somewhat confused by their expectant faces.

"Well, you are in charge now," Clint replied. "Right, Phil?"

"Apparently." Phil shrugged, smiling slightly. "I wouldn't want to disappoint Lady Sif. I once saw her attack a robot with a double-edged sword. It was pretty badass."

"I would prefer not to be in charge, thank you," Jemma said dryly. "Trying to keep you lot under control would be exhausting."

"I can't imagine what you're talking about." Clint reached out and tugged lightly on a lock of her hair. "May I go practice my archery, ma'am?"

"Go away, Clint."

"Come on," Phil said, sliding his arm around her waist. "I'll clear off my desk for you."

"Don't you start." She sighed. "In all seriousness, I defer my god-ordained responsibility to Phil."

"Knowing when to delegate is the mark of a great leader," Steve told her solemnly, and she laughed despite herself.

* * *

_AN: __Lines used from "Yes Men":_

_Sif: Men have an inherent weakness we do not share.  
Fitz:I can't imagine what she's talking about._

_Phil's reference to New Mexico is a paraphrased version of the line in the show, but he does indeed say "It was pretty badass."_


	36. Gentiana bavarica

_Reach me a gentian, give me a torch_  
_let me guide myself with the blue, forked torch of this flower_  
_down the darker and darker stairs, where blue is darkened on blueness._  
_Even where Persephone goes, just now, from the frosted September_  
_to the sightless realm where darkness was awake upon the dark_  
_and Persephone herself is but a voice_  
_or a darkness invisible enfolded in a deeper dark_  
_of the arms Plutonic, and pierced with the passion of dense gloom,_  
_among the splendour of torches of darkness, shedding darkness on the lost bride and her groom._  
-"Bavarian Gentians," D.H. Lawrence

There were no stars that night, and the waxing moon was covered by the clouds that had been gathering since sunset. As insulated as the Playground was, the storm was close enough that Jemma could still hear the faint crack of thunder outside the window, followed in short succession by a streak of lightning which cast the desolate landscape into sharp relief. When the rain hit the glass, it did so to odd effect, pattering and sliding in such a way that there almost appeared to be a full six inches of difference between the glass in Jemma's room and the actual exterior window.

There was a sharp, almost frantic, rap on the door that coincided with the next burst of thunder, and Jemma hesitated before undoing the lock. "Who is it?"

"Skye." The answer was muffled, but her voice was distinctive. Jemma pulled open the door to find Skye waiting on the threshold, sword in hand.

"Is that SHIELD issue?" Jemma asked after a moment, raising a brow.

"Yes." Skye shook her head, a look of despair on her face, and stepped into the room when Jemma moved back in invitation. "There is an entire sword section in the armory, Jem. It's right next to the machine guns."

"And why do you have one?"

"Sif insists that I have to learn," Skye replied. "I'm not sure how I'm supposed to learn how to handle a sword in, you know, twenty-four hours, but instead of pointing out that I could probably kill us all, May and Natasha just laughed."

"May laughed? May?" Try as she might, Jemma could not remember hearing an actual laugh from May, ever.

"It was more like a secret agent snicker. It's in the eyes." Skye pulled a few inches of steel from the sheath, and the edge flashed razor thin under the light. "When I come back without fingers and toes, do you think Fitz will build me replacements?"

"Likely." Jemma took the sheathed sword from Skye and examined it. "Well-balanced," she said finally. "The hilt is a bit awkward for me, but I'm used to epées."

"You know how to use a sword?" Skye asked in a flat tone. "Is this a British thing?"

"I know how to fence," Jemma corrected. "A different matter entirely. I wouldn't know the first thing about using this beast."

The bathroom door opened and Phil stepped out in sweatpants and a t-shirt, though he stopped on seeing the sword in Jemma's hands. "Are those standard issue now, Boudica?"

"According to Sif, yes," she replied with a smile, and handed the sword back to Skye.

"AC, will you please explain to Sif that orphaned urchins are rarely instructed in the fine arts of war?" Skye gave him her best puppy-eyed expression. "I mean, I've read Sun Tzu, but that didn't exactly come with a practicum."

"I'll do my best." He shook his head. "Life was much simpler before Asgardians started to visit on a regular basis. You didn't walk here alone, did you?"

"My room is two doors down," Skye reminded him as she left the room. "I walked, like, thirty feet by myself, and met no one."

"I'd slap you on the wrist, but I'm sort of afraid that you would hit me with that thing." He followed her out into the hall, looking back at Jemma. "I'm just going to check her closet for monsters. I'll be back in a few minutes."

She locked the door after him and began to turn down the bed, fluffing the pillows and tweaking the blanket straight. Outside the window another streak of lightning forked across the sky. A good night to stay in and snuggle- not that they had any choice about the staying in.

"Skye said that there are swords in the armory," Jemma informed Phil after he returned, flashing him an amused smile. "Do they often teach operatives how to use a sword?"

"It's an elective, basically." He turned off the overhead light, leaving only the glow of the bedside lamps. "Or it was. After Thor and his friends showed up, the academy seemed to take swordplay a bit more seriously. I admit, I never learned."

"Even with the Asgardian invasion, I'm not sure a broadsword really has many applications, these days." She tried to make herself comfortable under the sheets, but felt for the first time that the pillows were too soft behind her back. With a frown she got back up and walked over to the closet, pulling two more off the shelves.

"Using it as a cudgel would probably work pretty well." He watched as she tried to situate herself again, a look of concern on his face. "Anything I can do?"

"No." She shifted positions a few more times before giving up with a wry smile. "I can't get enough support behind my back."

"Lean against me." He helped her lie back against his chest, bringing his knees up on either side of her, and curved his hands against her stomach. "Better?"

It was better, and not just because of the added support. "Nice and warm," she said happily, pulling the covers up higher. "Are you comfortable?"

She felt him brush a kiss against the back of her head. "Very."

She had learned over the course of their relationship that Phil was very aware of his own strength- had glimpsed it in that moment when he had balanced her hands in that barely remembered motel room, and had gained a greater acquaintance with it over the course of their nascent physical relationship. He was still careful to make adjustments in how he held her, as her body changed day by day and week by week. She could feel it in the way he eased his arms around her, in the way he made allowances for her belly when they kissed.

She had, at least, broken him of the habit of holding her as if she were fragile. She had preferred the china doll treatment in the very early days, because it had made her feel as if escape were a legitimate option, should she become too overwhelmed. Even then she had known that Phil would have allowed her to break away at the slightest hint of uncertainty, no matter how firm his hold, but it was easier to remember that when his arms only draped loosely around her waist. By the time she was ready for sex, she was perfectly happy to have him pin her down (though not on her stomach- perhaps never on her stomach), and to pin him down in return.

Or play at pinning him down, really. It was almost more exciting to have him underneath her, knowing that he _could_ take control at any moment he pleased, but had chosen to remain at her mercy.

"It's so odd, knowing I'll be the only woman here by tomorrow evening," she admitted quietly, trying to force herself to relax further. "I'm tempted to ask Sif to take Garrett as bait. His boys, too."

"How would she keep them under control?" he asked, his tone serious enough that she could tell he was actually considering the idea.

"Shock collars," she replied after a moment of thought, and he laughed.

"I'm very glad we're on good terms." He tickled the exposed skin of her belly, and then brushed aside her hair so that he could kiss her neck. "You don't have one set aside for me, do you?"

"Oh, no." She almost felt offended that he had even joked about it. "You are far too exemplary a husband."

"And you are far too sweet a wife." He began kissing his way down her neck, which was… distracting. "Though, much like Lady Sif, you are pretty badass."

"I can't walk fifty feet without feeling out of breath," she countered, a small smile playing over her lips.

"Because the baby is crowding your lungs." He rubbed his hand soothingly against her stomach, dipping his thumb into her still-concave belly button on each pass. "I remember watching you run in Lima. You were like a gazelle."

"You missed the days when I tripped over thin air and fell on my face, apparently," she replied. "More like a baby gazelle."

"No, I saw those, too." She could feel him grinning against her neck. "As Skye would say, you caught some serious air."

"I don't think Skye would say that," she protested, laughing. "It's a bit too… actually, I don't even know what that would be."

He hummed briefly against her neck, cinching his other arm under her breasts. "You've got Bruce, Clint, and Cap on your side, Jemma," he said softly. "And myself and Fitz- and probably Trip, as well. _And_ somehow you've managed to charm the Hulk. I wasn't sure that was even possible."

"Hulk's a dear," she murmured, letting her eyes close. "I think he has better control than we think."

"I hope so." He continued rubbing her stomach slowly, gentling his touch, and her burgeoning arousal began to slip beneath her anxiety-driven fatigue. "Let's lie down. How can I help your back?"

She wriggled once she was on her side, and tried placing a pillow between her knees, like every pregnancy guide suggested. It didn't quite work, to her disappointment, and after a moment she rolled over onto her other side to face him.

"Put one of your legs between mine, please."

"Like this?" He tried a variety of different placements, only to have them all vetoed by an increasingly amused Jemma. "I've played simpler games of Twister," he said as she giggled, then finally seemed to hit the sweet spot.

"Perfect," she sighed with relief, wrapping an arm around his chest. Perfect, except… "Damn," she groaned, pulling away and sitting up grumpily. "I'll be back."

He was laughing as she walked toward the bathroom. "I'll try to remember the right coordinates."

"They'll be different tomorrow night," she predicted glumly. "If this is the midpoint, I'll be henpecking you come the due date."

He helped her resettle herself when she returned, finding the same perfect spot with minimum fuss the second time around. "Don't be shy about what you need," he said, stroking her back lightly. "If I can make you more comfortable, I want to know."

"Bad enough you have to worry about keeping me under lock and key." She pressed her face against his chest, nuzzling her nose against the patch of skin just above the collar of his t-shirt. "You smell very nice." She was too tired to go much beyond that. It was a simple fact, and nothing more- he smelled delicious, and he smelled utterly familiar in a way that never failed to either soothe or arouse. She suspected that, if blindfolded and given a pair of earplugs, she could still pick him out of a line-up by scent alone.

"I don't like keeping you locked up," he groused, and slipped one hand under her shirt to trail his fingers up her spine.

"I know you don't," she assured him. "It's just temporary." She hoped.

"Maybe next time-"

He hesitated. "If we decide to have another baby; I mean, if you want one-"

"Theoretically, yes," she interjected when it seemed as if he would remain mired in the subjunctive. "I didn't like being an only child. It was very lonely."

The loneliness had not at all been helped by her intelligence, which had rocketed her past lessons with her age-mates into the world of special tutors and carefully picked extra-curricular activities. Jemma loved her parents- they had done their best by her, and had loved her, and she was duly grateful for the advantages they had given her- but until the academy she had always been the youngest person in every seminar and in every class, and friends had been few and far between.

Strangely, it had not bothered her a great deal until the day she sat down to defend her first dissertation. Fourteen years of age and dressed in a skirt suit which had cost a fortune and yet barely flattered her at all, she had answered every question with enthusiasm and ease as various members of the panel stared at her with expressions that ranged from doting to what she remembered as barely concealed loathing. It was as she waited outside the room for their verdict, nervously wringing her hands, that she realized she stood in an utterly bare hallway. No one had come to wait with her, and other than a phone call from her parents that morning no one had given her their best wishes for the ordeal.

Jemma had eaten dinner alone that night, and had returned to her tiny room alone, and surrounded by piles of library books and notes she had waited to feel different, and never quite did.

So yes, she wanted more than one child- two at least, but maybe even three or four- and she wanted them in any way they might come. She wanted them regardless of where they fell on the spectrum of intelligence; she wanted them even if they were born with swirling blue tattoos and alien eyes. She wanted to raise happy and healthy children who would know, without a doubt, that when their day came to stand in some unfriendly hallway and wait for any kind of answer, there would always be someone willing to wait with them.

He waited to speak again, seeming to sense that she was temporarily distracted. "Then next time you're pregnant, we'll find somewhere nice to stay," he said quietly. "A little house in the country somewhere, where you can relax in the shade and take afternoon naps with the windows open. Have you ever been to Bulgaria? It's a beautiful country."

"I haven't." She smiled and closed her eyes. "Though you just described the house in Lima perfectly- except for the size."

"I do miss that house." There was a note that was almost mournful in his voice. "Being back there would be ideal."

She generally tried her best to avoid all thoughts of the house, if only because her elevated hormones preyed on those happy memories and left her in a weepy mess. Or worse- left her with an urge to nest in a place where nesting was practically impossible. If she were in Lima she could putter through the house to her heart's content, child-proofing cabinets and electrical sockets and asking Clint and Phil to shift the furniture first here, and then there, until Clint inevitably asked her if she would like him to move everything up onto the roof or the lawn. In the Playground the furniture was all sharp corners and bare lines, and the urge to staple pillows to the edges of the tables was almost overwhelming, at times.

"It's very old-fashioned," she began with a quiet laugh, "but I would like to give birth in that bed, where she was conceived." She paused, considering that statement. "Probably conceived," she amended, and he began to laugh. "Though I suppose I should just say 'in that room', because I'm not planning on lying down when I push."

"Is there a schedule I should know about?" he asked, his voice rich with mirth. "I'm not sure childbirth is as easy to prepare for as a train heist."

She opened her eyes and smirked, and tugged down his shirt slightly to kiss his chest. "Prostitutes," she said, making sure to roll the 'r' and draw the word out in the plummiest accent possible. "Plural."

He laughed so hard that he let her go so that he could lie flat on his back, though he left his legs tangled with hers. "Jemma, you are a _terror_."

She propped herself up on one elbow, no longer feeling quite as tired. "Surely you didn't think that I wouldn't study up on optimal labor positions," she teased.

"Oh, I know that you have." He rubbed a hand over his face, still grinning. "I'm sure you have them ranked in order of preference."

"Yes," she admitted. "But the body wants what it wants, so I have decided to simply do what feels best." She lay back down and snuggled up against him. "I will try not to yell at you during labor."

"I thought that was traditional."

"You won't take it too seriously if I accidentally say something mean, will you?" She fisted one hand in his shirt, blinking furiously when a traitorous mood swing suddenly made her tear up. "I need you there, but I don't want to hurt you." A thought struck her, and she spoke again before he could reply, feeling herself drop further into hormone-induced worry. "Do you even want to be there? I never really asked, and I could get Natasha, but I... I _need_ you there, and-"

He interrupted her before she could ramble further. "I want to be there. Natasha can be in the room if you like, but I want to be there." He raised a hand to curl it lightly around the back of her head. "Yell at me all you like. Labor means you get a free pass."

Despite her best efforts, she was crying, and frustrated with her shifting mood to boot. "I like being nice to you," she muttered against his shirt.

"I know you do," he replied, and managed to do some kind of contortion that put him at her eye level without moving his legs. She found herself laughing tearily in response, and untangled her legs from his.

"You'll hurt your back," she protested, still laughing and crying simultaneously. "I need that back in good condition."

"I'm more concerned about yours." He brushed the tears from her cheeks and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "It's going to be okay, Jemma. I don't want you to feel silenced. Scream whatever you want."

"I'm sorry." She sighed. "This is such an irrational meltdown to be having."

"Don't worry about it. My feelings aren't so easily hurt." He watched her face for a moment, and whatever he saw must have reassured him. "We never did turn the lamps off. Do you want to leave them on?"

"No." It took her a minute to move to the edge of her side of the bed and switch the lamp off, but he waited patiently until she had resettled herself near the center before cutting off his own lamp.

"Let's find that spot again," he said quietly, arranging himself against her. "Good?"

"Very good," she answered, still sniffling a little as she wrapped an arm around him. "Thank you."

He reached out, snagging the other pillows in reach and placing them behind her. She didn't particularly need the extra little bit of support, in this position- especially once he snugged his free arm across her back- but the act of consideration was so very _Phil_ that she felt tears well up again.

She knew three languages, had read more than her fair share of poetry and prose, and could rattle off the periodic table perfectly after eight shots of tequila (or had once been able to, in the neon-lit boiler room of the academy), but in that moment she couldn't string together a sentence that perfectly expressed that she loved him for everything he was and had been and would be, and that she loved every atom that was a part of him as much as she loved the atoms that made up the sun and the moon and the flowers she tended.

_I love you_ was too simple a phrase, really, to encompass such a concept.

"Mon coeur," she said instead, breathing it against his chest, and in a moment of almost ridiculous sincerity followed it up with, "You really do smell wonderful."

It was a while before they slept, after that- first because they were laughing too hard, and then because desire would have its way- _and then_because a pregnant woman simply could not go without visiting a bathroom for nearly any amount of time, sleep be damned- but when she did sleep, she slept well.

Except for the dream about chasing a flying baby through the Bus. That was just weird.

* * *

Phil was used to being left behind on missions- before the Bus, he had spent more time behind a desk than out in the field, though that had been at least partially due to the large amount of paperwork Natasha and Clint tended to accrue- but it was a bit odd to watch Sif and her team of three prepare to leave, and to know that his particular skills were absolutely useless thanks to a matter of biology.

"And now you know how we feel," Natasha said dryly as she passed him toting a duffel bag and a brace of knives, reading him so easily that he was forced to add another mental check to his _Natasha Romanov: Possible Psychic_ list.

He found May going through her pre-flight check, and she gave him the minutest of nods when he entered the cockpit.

"All right with this?" he asked her, and she flicked a quick glance at him. "You're meeting with another team, right? Sif was reluctant to give me most of the details; I think she's afraid we might try and swoop in to save the day."

She gave the barest roll of her eyes. "The last thing we need is for Steve Rogers and the Hulk to get roped into this woman's net." She gave him a sharp glare. "Play the hero and you will regret it, Phil."

"Not intending to." He ignored the annoyed twitch at the corner of her eye when he took a seat in the copilot's chair. "I'll be here, trying to keep Garrett from stealing a plane and playing the hero."

She muttered something uncomplimentary in Mandarin, her voice so low it was barely audible.

"I think Fitz would argue that most monkeys are much more useful and personable that Garrett," he replied with a straight face, and she quirked the smallest of smiles. "Besides, you can house-train a monkey."

She dipped her head slightly in a nod, then turned to face him, her check complete. "Kaminsky," she said flatly, drawing the name out slightly.

"What about him?"

"Too cheerful." She turned away, apparently having addressed her remaining concern. "Stay out of trouble."

It was a clear dismissal, and there was something about her body language that told him she was done talking for that particular moment, and nothing would convince her otherwise.

Sif gave him a grave nod when he passed her in the lounge, where she was polishing her sword with all the care that he had once given to handling his vintage Captain America cards. The upper level was otherwise empty, and he walked quickly through the halls and down the staircase, where he found Skye and Jemma chatting in the bay.

Jemma was perched on Lola's hood, and she smiled when their eyes met, looking lovely in her black dress against the red. "I'm almost jealous," she said cheerfully. "A pity I can't go with them. I hope Natasha or May requisitioned a science team, just in case."

"At least you get to be in charge." Skye leaned back against the passenger door of the SUV. "You okay with that, AC?"

"I'm confident Jemma won't abuse her power," he replied, then considered the subdued glint of mischief in Jemma's eyes. "Much."

"If you institute Shirtless Saturdays while I'm gone I might never forgive you," Skye informed Jemma seriously.

"There are several people currently on base whose chests I do not wish to see." Jemma shook her head, her expression suddenly turning prim. "And only I get to look at Phil's chest."

Alarmingly, Skye turned to him, a considering look on her face. "Like, ever?"

"Like, ever," he parroted back, dead-pan. "Try not to lose any limbs while you're gone. I hear that hacktivists are rather dependent on things like fingers and hands."

She gave a long-suffering sigh. "Just, please, never tell Stark about the sword, okay? He'll add it to the uniform, or something."

"I could be persuaded to keep my mouth shut." He held out his hand to Jemma. "May's ready to take off. Want to take a drive?"

Jemma smiled and took his hand before standing. "Keeping Lola on base, are you?"

"Too many swords," he replied with a shake of his head, and held open the passenger door for her. "I'd fret the entire time."

Jemma settled into the seat, carefully arranging her seatbelt around her belly as he shut the door. "Stay safe, Skye," he said as he circled around the car to the driver's side, and gave her a smile. "As the future cool aunt, you have a duty to return in one piece."

"Yes," she said excitedly, and to his amusement did a brief victory dance. "High five, AC. You won't regret this."

"I certainly hope not." He met her high five and slid behind the wheel. "Ready, dear?"

"Very much so," Jemma replied, and waved goodbye to Skye as he backed the car out of the Bus. "Is it still cold outside?"

"A bit chilly, but I thought you would like some fresh air." He drove the car well away from the Bus, putting Lola in park as the plane departed the hangar. There were a few blankets in the trunk of the car, as well as some emergency supplies, and he fetched the warmest of the blankets as May took off outside.

"Thank you," Jemma said appreciatively as he tucked the blanket around her, grinning when he pulled it up around her chin and finished by tugging one of his knit wool caps down over her ears. "Very snug. Do you even have a coat for yourself?"

"We won't be gone long." It had been a last-minute decision, made in that instant when he had seen her sitting on Lola's hood. Next time, he would pack the trunk with coats and gloves and a thermos of hot chocolate. Maybe they would even do some stargazing.

There was no road, per se, but that was hardly a problem. Lola flew easily over the rough terrain, the longer blades of tough grass brushing against the underside of the car. He parked in a small valley a few miles away from the base. "Are you warm enough?"

"I think I should be asking you that." Her cheeks were pink in the crisp air, but she looked happy to be outside. "I have more than enough blanket to share." She held up the edge in invitation. "Or I could just come over there."

At any other time he would have taken her up on that offer, but on the off-chance that someone surprised them he needed to be unencumbered by a snuggling wife. "Keep it, Jemma. I'll be fine."

She nodded, and then took a long look around her. "Thank you for this," she said after a few minutes, just as he was beginning to feel the chill. "I have missed the outdoors. Windows will only make up for so much. But," she continued, eyeing him, "I'm ready to go back, now."

"We'll do this again soon," he promised as he restarted the car. "Just let me know when you start to feel too hemmed in."

"I will."

"You still carry your key, right?"

She gave him a sharp glance. "I do."

"Let's sit down tonight and take a look at the satellite images," he suggested, raising his voice over the wind. "We'll find the best route to the nearest town."

She nodded in response, huddling down into the blanket, but she was smiling by the time they made it back to the base. He circled around the car to open her door as she untangled herself from the blanket, tugging the cap off of her head as he handed her out.

"That was a nice little treat," she said, looking happy and rosy, her hair delightfully mussed. She wrapped her arms around his neck and lifted onto her toes to kiss him sweetly.

She was frowning when she pulled back. "You are much too cold, though."

"I'll warm up in a few minutes." He slid an arm around her waist as they began to walk toward the main corridor. "What are your plans for the rest of the morning?"

"I think," she began slowly, considering her options, "that I am going to take a nap. I'm still a bit tired."

"There is a very comfortable couch in my office," he offered, not quite ready to be parted from her. "Unless you would prefer a bed."

"No." She shook her head in a decisive manner. "I don't really want to be alone. It's too quiet in that bedroom, by myself. I won't distract you?"

"Only in the best possible way," he assured her, leaning in to kiss her temple without missing a step.

Once inside his office he watched as she pulled off her shoes and tucked them neatly underneath the couch, the simple maneuver now requiring a few extra steps as she made allowances for her shifting center of gravity. He sifted through the reports on his desk as she made herself comfortable, and after a moment shrugged out of his jacket.

"You're still too cold," she protested when he draped it over her, and grabbed his hand. "Your hands are like ice."

He knelt down next to the couch as she began to gently chafe his hand back to warmth, frowning slightly as she worked. "I did have a nice time," she murmured. "Other hand, please. Maybe you should lock the door and lie down with me until you really warm up."

"Both of us won't fit on this couch, sadly." He pressed his free hand lightly against her stomach, wondering how much longer it would be until he felt a kick. "I'll turn up the heat in here a few more degrees. Take your nap."

She finished with a kiss to his knuckles, and released his hand. "I will sleep if you let me fuss over you tonight."

He was fairly certain her idea of fussing would involve tea, a hot bath, and cuddling with her under at least three duvets, all of which sounded very pleasant and vastly preferable to the pile of paperwork on his desk that seemed to grow larger every day. "Deal."

He quickly adjusted the thermostat, and then grabbed the pile of reports and a pen before returning to the couch. "There," he said, taking a seat and arranging her legs across his lap. "Warmer already."

She smiled, seeming to be satisfied for the moment, and drifted off to sleep quickly. He had a peaceful half hour before there was a quiet knock on the door. Jemma barely moved in response, and Clint slipped into the room almost silently, seeming relieved when he spotted her.

He grabbed a pad of paper off of Phil's desk and dashed off a quick note. _Just checking in. Bruce and Fitz were wondering where she was._

Clint's next note made him grin. _Suspect they depend on Jemma to play peacemaker. Bruce is looking suspiciously green._

Given Fitz's propensity to run his mouth continuously, that didn't surprise Phil at all. He quickly wrote his own note and held it up. _Make Steve run interference._

Clint gave him a wounded look and gestured toward himself.

_You would only egg them on,_ Phil wrote in firm letters. He didn't want to have to explain to Jemma or Fury why the Hulk had smashed Fitz through a wall. _Let Steve mediate._

Clint sighed theatrically and silently, and then left the room as quietly as a cat.

Phil returned to his reports, resting a hand lightly on one of Jemma's stockinged feet. She sighed softly in her sleep, curling one arm more tightly around the cushion under her head. It was a quiet, perfectly idyllic moment- and he was actually getting more work done, surprisingly, just by virtue of having her safe and secure and practically in his lap- and it was quickly ruined when the door flew open and Garrett strode in with his team.

Trip was with them, looking mildly annoyed and, once he noticed Jemma startling awake, rather embarrassed.

"Sorry, didn't mean to wake up the missus," Garrett said, dropping into a nearby chair. "Though I don't think this is SHIELD protocol, Phil."

"We're in the middle of a civil war," Phil replied acerbically, helping Jemma sit up. "Protocol has gone by the wayside. What is it?"

"I'm gonna take my boys out for a training exercise. Just us and a few days in the wilderness. Maybe we'll hunt squirrels or something." He grinned. "No offense to your cooking, Phil."

"None taken," he said dryly. "It's a bit nippy outside. Dress warm."

"Will do." Garrett stood and stretched, not in any apparent hurry to leave. "Remember, if an Asgardian enchantress shows up, don't answer the door."

"Becoming a mindless drone is not high on my list of priorities."

Trip hesitated long enough to give Phil and Jemma an apologetic look before following Garrett and the others out the door, looking as if he would rather be doing just about anything than camping for a few days in the early March drizzle.

Jemma yawned and lay back down again, this time with her head in his lap. "Can we change the locks while they're gone?"

"It would be almost worth getting written up for insubordination," he said after considering the idea, a small smile on his face. "But Koenig would just let them back in."

"Tell them it was a training exercise," she said. "Tell them you were testing base security. Tell them Fitz and Bruce were engaged in a prank war."

"I think I could swing that excuse if Tony were here, but Bruce isn't exactly the type." He brushed his fingers lightly over the curve of her ear and down the line of her jaw before picking up his abandoned report, forcing himself to return to work as her breathing grew deep and slow.

With any luck, Sif and the others would return before Garrett and his team, though as Phil had been the beneficiary of precious little luck lately, he doubted that would come to pass.

* * *

Between her little field trip and Garrett's unexpected (but entirely welcome) departure, Jemma was ready to declare the day a success. She had spent a lovely afternoon in her small garden, cossetting the flowers and discussing the results of her preliminary tests on the drosera mucilage with Bruce. He had some very interesting ideas about alternate applications that she hadn't yet considered, and she had a feeling they would be co-authoring a number of papers together in the future.

Dinner was unsurprisingly a raucous event, made even more so by everyone teasingly insisting on deferring to her as if she were the bloody queen. _But Sif said_ was apparently the motto of the day, and she had a feeling that particular phrase would be following her for the foreseeable future. The teasing was lovingly meant, and had the culprits been anyone other than her boys (and when they had become 'her boys' she wasn't quite sure) she most likely would have muttered 'zeitgeist' at some point during the evening and left someone snoozing on a plate of pot roast.

Clint, probably. It just wouldn't do to get on the Hulk's bad side, and even if her ring affected Steve, it would only lead to Phil giving her the kind of dismayed look that rendered her practically helpless (and zapping him, of course, was entirely out of the question).

And Fitz- well, he would complain about it for the next fifty years, and Jemma just wasn't that patient.

"You realize I'm perfectly warm now, right?" Phil asked her once they were back in their room and she was nimbly unbuttoning his shirt. "No need to fuss."

"Ah," she replied with a smile, "but I was promised the right to fuss. And I'm supposed to get my way. Sif said so."

And she did get her way, much to their mutual satisfaction, first by coaxing him into the bath and then by wrapping him up inside a duvet. He didn't seem to mind the latter, probably because she had wrapped herself up inside the duvet as well, as if she were, as he put it, some kind of latter-day Cleopatra.

"Then take me, Caesar," she had purred in response, and it was all very sweet and silly, with a great deal of laughter and some truly ridiculous ad-lib on her part. He was warm and relaxed when he finally fell asleep in her arms, and she smugly gave herself high marks for her ability to fuss before falling asleep herself.

A craving woke her several hours later, one so fierce that the hunger was almost overwhelming. Three a.m. cravings were not uncommon for her, but she generally did her best to ignore them at the Playground. She certainly had no intention of wandering down to the kitchen by herself, and she was uncomfortable asking Phil to go in her stead. She had no doubt that he would, if asked, but she was loathe to ask him to wander potentially unfriendly halls just to fetch her some ice-cream.

With sriracha sauce. That was weird, wasn't it? She was fairly certain that it was weird, and yet she was close to kicking someone for a taste.

"You're thinking very hard," he muttered against her shoulder.

"The baby wants ice-cream," she replied apologetically. "Do you think it's safe to go down to the kitchen?"

"Just us and Koenig." He sat up, going from drowsy to chipper with the kind of speed that she envied. "Let's take a midnight stroll."

They both pulled on clothes and sneakers, and he draped one of his cardigans around her shoulders with a smile. "You've never woken me up before," he commented with a knowing glance. "Taking care of cravings is supposed to be one of my jobs."

She shrugged, and then put her arms through the sleeves of the cardigan and secured one button. "I didn't feel safe sending you," she admitted. "I preferred to keep you close."

It was as much for his safety as hers, really, and judging by his expression he understood that. "And what does the baby want?" he asked instead, taking her hand and gently squeezing it. "Ice-cream, you said?"

"Mint chocolate chip." She paused. "With sriracha sauce." Another pause, this one more thoughtful. "And peanut butter."

"Do you want that in a bowl, or in milkshake form?" was all he asked, and she blessed him for repressing the shudder that any normal person would have responded with.

"Ooh." She quickened her step, inspired. "A milkshake does sound nice."

And that was exactly what he made for her, after a very serious consultation on the exact ratio of ingredients she desired. He managed to find an insulated cup with a lid and a straw in one of the cupboards, and she happily settled back with her treat. It was disgusting, and it was perfect, and anyone who tried to pry it out of her hands was going to get smacked.

He settled back into his own chair, watching her with a satisfied expression on his face. She suspected that she could ask him to make her bargain brand fish fingers and he would seriously consider actually jumping into Lola and driving into the nearest city, which was a hundred miles away, give or take a few hills.

"Thank you," she said, propping her feet up on the empty chair across from her. "I know the combination of ingredients does not meet your usual standards, but I truly am enjoying it."

"That's the important part."

Her reply, which she intended to be teasing and as flirtatious as possible for someone who was imbibing a milkshake which contained a healthy amount of vinegared hot sauce, was preempted by an odd _whump_, almost as if something had just imploded.

"I knew this day was going too well," Phil muttered as he jumped to his feet, reaching out to swipe his sleeve across the ring of condensation her cup had left on the table. "Keep that," he said as he pulled her up, and began to urge her across the room, flipping off the lights at the last second. "I am sorry, but we have to go into the basement."

There was an echo as a door crashed open perhaps a few halls away, and she pushed away her instinctive fear as they entered the pantry and walked quickly and quietly down the stairs. She had her ring, at least, though his cufflinks were tucked securely away in a drawer.

"It's okay," she replied, trying to hide her anxiety.

He drew her around the first corner and stopped, his hands clasped securely around her shoulders as he considered her carefully and quickly. "You are so brave, Jemma," he said soothingly. "We're going to be fine."

"I know." She drew in a shaking breath. "Where do you want to go?"

He released her shoulders and reached under his shirt, pulling out a gun that she hadn't even realized he was carrying. "When did you put on a holster?" she asked in confusion as he pulled her down the hall, walking at half his normal speed.

"When you were putting on your shoes," he answered easily. "Drink your shake."

"You have to promise me," she panted, trying to keep pace, "that the next pregnancy will be absolutely normal and lazy. I don't want to lift even a finger for nine months."

"I will dress you in silk and carry you from room to room, swear to God." He pulled her into what was indisputably the long-sought for laundry room, and dropped her hand. He began to press his fingers along one wall, searching for several nerve-wracking minutes before finding some secret trigger, causing a seam to appear in the wall and a door to swing open.

"Is that in the plans?" she asked in a whisper as she followed him quickly into the spider-webbed passageway, and to her relief he shook his head.

"Nat found it. She showed me last night." He switched on the overhead light which, while dim and tinted a rather ghastly green, did allow them to see their surroundings. "She said that it loops through the facility. Should allow us to stay backstage until we figure out what's going on. But first," he continued, "sit down, catch your breath."

"Our lives are in danger and our friends are still sleeping," she replied somewhat incredulously, "and I should sit down."

"Yes," he said firmly. "Sit down, feed the baby, take a breath."

"This feels wrong," she muttered, allowing him to help her take a seat on the floor. After a moment's thought she took a sip of her shake, rolling her eyes at the absurdity of carrying it all the way to a secret passage in the middle of an invasion.

"Hey, Jemma?"

She looked up at him, catching a glimpse of his smile, which was somehow just as bright and affectionate as it had been in their bedroom. "Yes?"

"You look beautiful," he said with utmost sincerity.

She took stock of her appearance, from her tousled hair to her now dusty and be-webbed clothing, and to her surprise, she grinned. "Flatterer."


	37. Lamprocapnos spectabilis

_And short the season, first rubythroat_  
_in the fading lilacs, alyssum in bloom,_  
_a honeybee bumbling in the bleeding heart_  
_on my gelding's grave while beetles swarm_  
_him underground. Wet feet, wet cuffs,_  
_little flecks of buttercup on my sneaker toes,_  
_bluets, violets crowding out the tufts_  
_of rich new grass the horses nose_  
_and nibble like sleepwalkers held fast—_  
_brittle beauty—might this be the last?_  
-"Whereof the Gift Is Small," Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey

The passage was not kept in the best of repair, but then, Phil was fairly certain that before Natasha had slipped through the hidden door, the halls had lain untouched for at least a decade. Dust swirled around his and Jemma's feet as they walked, following Natasha and Clint's footprints through the drifting tendrils of ancient spider webs.

Delicately he flicked a spider off of Jemma's hair, barely brushing the strands with his fingers. She was not scared of spiders- more than once he had seen her rescue tarantulas that had wandered inside the house in Lima, carrying them outside with her bare hands as Clint pretended that he was not hugging the wall in fear- but they had enough to worry about without courting the possibility of a bite.

Jemma was keeping up well, considering her restricted lung capacity and the extra weight she was carrying. The first time he took her hand to check her pulse she had given him a long-suffering look, albeit a patient one. It almost concealed the slight, nervous crease on her brow.

"I doubt we are even hitting one mile per hour," she said lightly. "We could pick up the speed."

"We might have to make a run for it later." He pressed a kiss to her wrist and released her hand. "No need to get your heart rate too high without cause."

"True enough." She still held the now-empty cup, tapping it at irregular intervals against her leg. "I just- running is not my forté, at the moment."

That was exactly his worry, but he hoped that adrenaline would give them an added boost. Or give him an added boost, to be specific. "Let me worry about the running."

After a moment she gave him a quiet smile and hooked her fingers through the belt loops of his jeans. "I trust you completely," she said, and leaned her head against his shoulder. "Now, where are we?"

"Somewhere under the personnel quarters," he guessed. "There should be stairs soon."

They turned a corner. "Or a ladder," she said with a sigh. "Excellent."

A ladder, and a dead end. He regarded the black hole above them with a frown, considering the best way to go about this. It would be safest to send her ahead, in case she fell, but he could hardly do that without verifying that the upper floor was safe.

"Will you wait here a few minutes?" he asked, casting a glance in the direction they had just come. "I want to scout ahead."

She nodded and leaned against the wall, tapping with the cup again. As a tell, it was a very obvious one. "Be quick," she requested quietly.

The ladder was sound beneath his hands, at least, and dry. He crept over the lip of the upper floor, taking in his immediate surroundings with a quick look. Black as pitch, other than the light coming up from below, and he ran his hand cautiously along the walls around him looking for a light switch.

The light, when it came, revealed only the quick movement of a rat as it slipped into a hole in the wall. Good enough. He quickly climbed back down the ladder to Jemma, who had barely moved an inch while he was gone.

"Just us and the rats," he told her, and she gave him a quick grin.

"Rats I can deal with." She approached the ladder and then frowned, holding up the cup. "We should hide it, shouldn't we?" She glanced around, seeing only the dust and grime that surrounded them. "Though with the trail we left, I suppose that's a moot point."

He plucked the cup from her hand, but didn't toss it away. "It might be useful. Take it slow, okay? I'll be right down here."

She scrubbed her palms against her sweater as she gazed up the length of the ladder, considering it for a long moment. Finally, she took in a deep breath and began her ascent. "At least it's not as bad as some of the trees Clint used to make me climb."

"Clint thinks anything less than fifty feet tall is a skip and a jump." He watched as she carefully chose her hand and footholds, moving up to the next rung only when she felt absolutely secure. It took her several minutes to make the climb, and his heart was practically in his throat by the time she pulled herself over the edge.

He tucked the cup under his shirt and followed her quickly. They both needed to stay hydrated- Jemma most of all- and he had what might be a futile hope that they would run across a clean water source at some point in the near future. If that didn't work out, he knew at least twenty ways to kill or impair someone with a drinking straw, and it was worth keeping the cup on hand just for that.

She was sitting against the wall when he joined her. "You are absolutely covered in webs," he said, surprising himself with a laugh as he sat next to her and began running his hands over her hair. "You wouldn't look out of place in a haunted house."

"You're one to talk." She grinned and tapped him on the nose with a gentle finger. "You look like you're minutes away from falling prey to Shelob."

He slipped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Fine." She dropped her head to his shoulder and took in a loud breath. "How long have we been down here? A half an hour?"

"About that." Anything could have happened in a half an hour, up to and including a complete hostile takeover of the facility. "I'm actually glad that we were in the kitchen," he said, stroking her shoulder. "We would have been in a tight spot if we had still been in bed."

"And naked," she murmured in amusement. "That would have been embarrassing."

"Happened to me once," he admitted. "On a mission in Cairo, on an absolutely sweltering night."

"And?"

"Had the bullet's trajectory been an inch higher, we would not be having a child."

She laughed quietly and patted his knee. "Thank goodness for bad aim. And now," she said, sitting up straighter, "I think we should move. If I sit for too long, I'm going to fall asleep."

She slid her arms around his neck once they were both on their feet, and tilted her face up to his. "A hug and a kiss, please," she requested, tickling her fingers against the nape of his neck. "For good luck."

She was absolutely filthy- they both were- and just as gorgeous as she had been the day they had first called each other husband and wife. "Only the best of luck for you, darling," he said fondly, pulling her in for a kiss and the firmest embrace he could safely give her. She still tasted a little bit of the milkshake he had made for her, and while the combination of ingredients was not to his taste (an understatement; the combination was unholy), he was willing to put up with a great deal for the privilege of kissing her.

"I hope they don't hurt my plants," she said softly after the kiss, her arms still around him. "I'm going to be very upset if they bruise my cattleya."

"Not the drosera?" he asked, and she brushed her lips gently against his.

"The cattleya are my favorite." She gave him a conspiratorial smile. "Don't tell the roses. Vain little creatures."

"I wouldn't dare." He picked the cup off of the floor and handed it to her, pulling his gun back out of its holster. "I think we're near the end of the hall- Garrett's room should be here," he said, thinking aloud, and touched the wall lightly.

She walked a few steps ahead, examining the wall carefully. "Phil," she said, and turned to give him a consternated look. "Natasha didn't say anything about other footprints in the tunnels, did she?"

"No. Why?"

"Peephole." He was willing to bet that under natural light she would be blushing crimson. "Perhaps we should invest in a wall-hanging for our room."

"Nat would have _definitely_ told me if someone else was creeping around back here," he said with confidence, and took a quick glance through the peephole. Garrett was still as messy as he had ever been, apparently. Clothes were draped over the dresser and scattered across the floor, and from what he could see of the bed it was obvious that it had not been made.

She had her arms crossed tightly over her chest when he turned back to her, and she looked deeply embarrassed and close to tears. "Sorry," she said, hunching her shoulders forward slightly. "You're right, she would have said something."

He wrapped his arms around her without a word, and she took in a quick, shaky breath. He could have kicked himself for missing this, assuming there was even a similar peephole in their room. There likely was; there was no point in spying on just one room when they could spy on all of them.

He was no stranger to living under constant surveillance, but even SHIELD had never been so crass as to spy on their agents' bedrooms- or so he had thought. "Just Natasha and Clint's footprints ahead," he said quietly, running a hand over her hair. "And you know that they wouldn't embarrass you like that."

True words, and she would know that they were true, but the damage was done- neither of them would ever feel entirely comfortable in that room again. Cutting off visual access to the room wouldn't keep someone from listening in on their most private of moments, or the conversations they had in the quiet of the night. Their respective childhoods, Jemma's time in her cell, his own resurrection and all the issues surrounding it, their hopes for the baby- all things that belonged to no one other than them.

Hell, he didn't even want anyone listening to their private jokes. He never would have guessed that jibes about his many fictional prostitutes would be endearing, but watching her deploy each mention with sly, wicked humor just made him love her more.

"It's okay," she said, pressing her face against his shoulder briefly before pulling out of his arms. "Let's keep walking." She swiped the sleeve of his cardigan across her eyes, and then hooked her fingers back through his belt loops.

"You could always put your hand in my back pocket," he suggested, and she laughed unexpectedly.

"Groping your bum like a teenager in a secret tunnel, you mean? And you with a gun." She freed her hand long enough to pat him on the ass anyway, an arch look on her face. "I don't think that's protocol, Agent Coulson."

"It isn't. We make our own protocol." He checked the next peephole. Another empty room- Kaminsky's, he thought. It was Garrett, then Kaminsky, then Smith, then Trip, and after that their own people. Jemma had reclaimed his belt loops, and she was back to tapping the cup against her leg. "Come on. I admit, I want to see what Steve has lying around his room."

"You just want to watch him sleep again," she teased as he took a quick look into Smith's room. "Phil 'I watched you while you were sleeping' Coulson."

"I watch you while you're sleeping, too," he admittedly easily, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. "You make very cute noises when you're asleep."

"Are you trying to tell me that I snore?" she asked, thankfully looking more amused than offended.

"No," he replied, checking the peephole to Trip's room. Neat as a pin. "Quiet little sighs and whimpers, like a puppy."

She actually snorted in response, and ended up beating him to the next peephole. "Ahh," she said after a moment, sounding as if she had just made a very important discovery, "I finally have an answer for Skye."

A sense of foreboding filled him. Any unanswered questions Skye might have about Steve were likely to be... interesting. "And that answer would be?"

"Boxer-briefs," she said sweetly, walking further down the hall as he frowned and checked the peephole. The room was empty, but a basket of half-folded clean laundry rested on the bed, beside which lay a neat stack of underwear.

God help Steve. Once Skye found out, the entire internet wouldn't be far behind.

* * *

Jemma's nose itched, and she stopped in the middle of the hall to sneeze three times in rapid succession.

"Okay?" Phil rubbed a hand against her back, a worried crease on his brow. "Do you need some water?"

She would certainly like some water, but they were unlikely to find a tap anytime soon. "Just the dust." Roughly thirty yards ahead the corridor took a sharp turn to the left, and she repressed a sigh at the idea of trudging through the twin of the same seemingly endless hall that they had walked on the floor below. She wanted a bath and a bed, and she wanted them immediately.

Still, their current situation had its perks- or one perk, at least, and that perk was currently purposefully slowing his stride so that she could keep pace with him. If they had to be in danger- _again_- at least she had him by her side. And wasn't this what she had joked about, the morning after their wedding? Agent and Mrs. Coulson- _like a spy novel_.

"Do you need to sit down?" He was still watching her with that anxious look, and she forestalled answering his question by checking the next peephole. Skye's room, scattered with clothing and shoes, a jumble of thumb drives and wires abandoned on the bed.

She briefly considered lying- briefly, very briefly, because a part of her still insisted on being as small a burden as possible- but he was her husband and the baby's father, and she owed it to him to be as truthful as possible. "I'm tired and my feet hurt," she said honestly. "When this is all over I will probably be in the mood for one of your more extravagant fussing sessions, but right now our slow pace is only making me nervous."

His expression told her exactly how frustrated and upset he was by the entire situation, and she impulsively leaned forward and kissed the tip of his nose. "I know that you're concerned for me, but I need you to save all unnecessary fussing until after we're safe. The last thing you need is a weepy wife clinging to your hand in the middle of a gunfight."

He stared at her for a long moment. "It will be a _very_ extravagant fussing session," he finally said in a tone that brooked no argument. "It might take days."

"I accept your terms," she replied, and kissed him lightly. "Is Bruce's room next?"

"Yes." He crossed the distance to the next peephole quickly, and she could see the moment when he transitioned from worried husband to consummate agent. "Empty," he said, and added a quiet, dry laugh. "There is, however, a very large hole in the wall."

"So whoever has joined us is most definitely not friendly." She sighed and stretched before following him down the hall, trying to quicken her pace as they checked the rest of the rooms in quick succession. Clint was also missing from his bed and their room looked untouched, though she blushed when she saw exactly how much of their bed was visible from the point of view of the peephole.

"We are moving back to the Bus," she said firmly. "I don't care if we have to play a game of human tetris to fit in that bed. There is not a chance in hell that I will ever wear less than two layers of clothing in this room ever again."

The look he gave her was both understanding and mournful, and it completely shattered his formerly professional mien. It really was quite flattering how much he still enjoyed seeing her naked. "We'll make it work."

The passage looped around the common area and down the hall toward the kitchen, at which point she began to notice a gradual slope upwards. "Over the pantry?" she guessed, trying not to gasp, and then gave up. "I need to sit for a minute, Phil."

"You could scout ahead," she suggested once he had helped her to the floor. "We're the only ones in here, and then we wouldn't lose time."

From the look on his face, one would think that she had suggested planting a bomb in Lola's trunk. "No." He knelt next to her, frown lines etched deep in his face. "I would rather go at your pace than separate again, even for a few minutes."

There was no arguing with him when he was in this protective a mood, and so she smiled with good grace and patted the floor next to her. "Perhaps Agent Coulson would deign to cuddle with me for a few minutes, then."

"Is this what passes for flirting with you two?"

Phil shot to his feet beside her, gun at the ready, and for a moment they were at an impasse of sorts- Clint and Phil eyeing each other warily while Jemma sat on her bum on the cold concrete, wondering whether or not an empty cup was any use as a weapon.

"This is ridiculous," she said with a sigh after several long seconds. "Put away your weapons, boys. I'm much too tired for this display of dominance."

"If the intruder is Lorelei-" Phil began, only to be interrupted by Clint.

"Is _that_ what you're so worried about? Fine." He placed the knife he carried on the floor and then backed away, his hands in the air. "Not at all whammied, I assure you."

There was a moment of hesitation before Phil lowered his gun, looking relieved. "But she is in the building?"

"Yes," Clint replied with an aggrieved sigh. "Because men are stupid. Grab Jemma; I've got something to show both of you."

"I'm not a sack of potatoes, you know," Jemma said tartly, hoping that her look of disdain was at least half as effective as Natasha's. "I can walk."

"Oh, I know." Clint retrieved his knife, and then began walking backward up the slope, gesturing with his hands. "But where we're going has water, and it's a bit of a trek."

The mere thought of water reminded Jemma that she was more than a bit parched, and she held out her hand to Phil for help up. "Do you want me to hold your gun?" she asked him dryly, and he smirked before securing it in its holster and picking her up in a cradle hold.

It was so very nice to be off of her feet that she let her guard slip slightly, laying her head against his shoulder and closing her eyes. She didn't fall asleep- tempting though the thought was, that would have been foolish in the extreme- but she might have dozed. Just a little.

"-but by then, of course, it was too late," Clint was saying when her mind drifted back to the present moment, and she opened her eyes in sleepy incomprehension. "Though, in an interesting turn of events, the Hulk apparently has a very low opinion of Asgardian sorcery."

"Is Bruce all right?" she asked, concerned, and felt Phil brush a kiss across her brow.

"Fine, at the moment." Clint grinned back at her as he reached out to open a solid looking door. "A little bit head over heels for our new overlord, but his other half quickly took control of the situation. By which I mean he threw a door at her and began chasing some of her goons down the hall."

Waiting inside the room was Steve, who lifted his hand in a casual salute, and Fitz, who was trussed up like a Christmas goose. "I have orders, you know," he was saying to Steve, as if the ropes were a mere annoyance. "I can't disappoint her. She trusted me." His voice and expression turned heartbroken, and the effect lasted until he looked back toward the door and caught sight of her. "No, Jemma, I have to lock you up now," he sighed in irritation, and she gave him a quizzical look once her feet were back on the floor.

"How do you intend to do that, exactly?" she asked, genuinely interested, but concerned by the tinge of blood she could see where the ropes had rubbed his wrists raw. His struggles against the knots were whole-hearted, for all that his mind seemed to pay very little attention to them. Clint handed her a bottle of water, and she took it without looking away from Fitz.

He opened his mouth, then closed it, and repeated the cycle for a few seconds as he evidently tried to come up with an answer. "They'll do it!" he finally squawked, and received only lifted brows in return.

"Not really feeling the urge, bro," Clint said casually, and waved them over to the bank of screens against the wall. "So, here is our unwanted houseguest," he said, gesturing toward the woman currently trailing her fingers across one of the counters in the kitchen. "And here are her devoted slaves- and here is the big green guy chasing few of her other devoted slaves around the hangar."

Next to Jemma Phil flinched as the Hulk ran a loop around Lola, and then he leaned in toward the screens, squinting slightly. "Is that Sitwell?" he asked in disbelief. "He's supposed to be at the Triskelion."

"And yet here he is, following at her heels like a puppy. Cute, right?" Clint pushed a chair toward Jemma, who accepted it gratefully. "Anything interesting happen while I was gone, Steve?"

"More of the usual. What is most interesting is what I didn't see- or who, to be more precise." Steve jerked his thumb toward the screens, his gaze sharp. "Koenig might as well not even be here. I haven't even seen a hint of him."

"He might have found his own bolt-hole." Jemma couldn't see Phil's face- he was behind her, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders- but she guessed from his tone that Koenig had gone from being a tentative ally back to being an unknown factor. "Sitwell cut communications?"

"Someone did," Clint replied. "Maybe Koenig, maybe Sitwell. We managed to get through to May beforehand, though, so the valkyries are riding back toward us. Still, we're looking at twelve, maybe thirteen hours until they get here."

"How extensive is this tunnel?" Jemma asked, twisting the cap back on her water. "Where is the other end?"

"The hangar," Clint answered cheerfully. "That's where we came in, and that's where you are going next."

Phil was silent behind her, but his fingers tensed slightly. "And why would I be going to the hangar?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at Clint. "What's wrong with us hunkering down in this cozy little room until help arrives?"

"We have to assume that Koenig knows about this tunnel," Steve said, an apologetic look on his face. "If he hasn't been turned yet, there is no guarantee he won't be at some point in the future, and then we lose our advantage."

"They're right," Phil said heavily, and walked around the chair to lean against the wall opposite her. "And if that happens, we all become a danger to you."

True enough, and now they were all- with the exception of Fitz, who was watching the screens avidly- giving her their most serious expressions. "Let me guess," she said with a sigh, "Phil and I are supposed to grab Lola and fly very far away."

"And we have a winner." Clint tossed a set of keys to Phil. "You've just won an all-expenses paid trip to one of Natasha's safe-houses, though I wouldn't recommend staying for any longer than it would take to grab money and a new car. If we get caught, she might send a less-friendly Clint after you."

Protesting would only be a waste of breath. "You'll take care of Fitz, won't you?" She gave Steve and Clint a stern look. "Make sure he stays hydrated? You'll have to feed him every few hours; his metabolism is ridiculously fast."

"He is a fragile little bunny," Clint agreed soberly. "We'll cut the crusts off of his sandwiches and everything."

"Can't you just come with us?" She stood carefully, leaving the cup on the floor. "If all of you are taken, that doesn't do anyone much good."

"Yeah, but May and the others will need someone on the inside to let them in. We have to at least try to help them. Besides," Clint added, and reached out to ruffle her hair. "Lola only seats two."

"We'll be fine," Steve said reassuringly, and handed her another bottle of water. "There are enough supplies here to last a few days, and we _will_take good care of Fitz."

"She's just so pretty," Fitz sighed from the floor, his eyes still trained on the screen. "I bet her hair is soft. Doesn't her hair look soft, Steve?"

"You bet, buddy," Steve replied with gentle amusement, and Jemma shook her head as she followed Clint out the other door, Phil one step behind. She had to trust that they knew what they were doing- they were, after all, two men who were very skilled and competent at their jobs- and it wasn't as if she were Natasha, capable of scaling walls with only the slightest of handholds and breaking someone's neck with her thighs.

"We're not that far from the hangar." Clint had his knives out again, and he had dropped his voice to a hushed whisper. "You two took the long way around. See anything interesting on your way?"

"Just the interior of every bedroom on our hall," Jemma said wryly. "If you've ever wanted to take a gander at Steve's pants, I suggest you go take a look."

"Your Britishisms are adorable," Clint replied with a grin. "And I have seen Steve in his underwear, thank you. Natasha thinks it's funny to break into her friend's apartments at the crack of dawn and make breakfast."

He pointed up at the ceiling, and Jemma saw a grate overhead. "That leads into the ventilation system, in case either of you ever feel the urge to crawl around in even more dust and spider webs."

"Not so much," Jemma muttered, feeling an increasingly pressing need for a bathroom. "I don't suppose SHIELD installed a secret loo in their secret passage, did they?"

"That would have been much too practical," Clint replied with a crooked grin. "Pick your spot. I assure you that you would neither be the first nor the last to piss on this floor. I'll just step out of sight." He walked around the next corner, and she exchanged a glance with Phil.

"You'll still love me in the morning, I hope," she said with a slight smile, and handed him the water bottles she was carrying. "Turn your back, please."

It was surprisingly difficult to relieve one's bladder while trying to keep her balance and not get anything on her clothes, but she did manage it after some very careful maneuvers. She would have to thank May when all was said and done; she was fairly certain that she wouldn't have been able to accomplish the task at all without their daily tai chi practice.

She reclaimed the water bottles from Phil, deciding that she wouldn't pay any attention to the part of her that was acutely embarrassed by the last few minutes. She was pregnant, and her comfort was more important than conforming to societal standards of behavior.

Clint had been correct- they were not at all far from the door that led out into the hangar, and even from inside the tunnel they could hear the Hulk bellowing nearby. There was another peephole set into the door itself, and they took turns examining the situation on the other side of the wall.

The Hulk was in a stand off on the far side of the hangar, though he didn't seem to be in any kind of real danger. The bullets being used against him were just irritants, as far as Jemma could tell, and their path to Lola looked clear.

"Are you sure about this?" she asked Clint quietly. "Once we open this door, they'll know that you're hiding in the walls."

"True enough." He shrugged, apparently unconcerned. "Nat and I found a couple of extra security measures up in the control room. Once the two of you are safely out, we'll put the passage into lockdown. Could have done it earlier, but without knowing where you were, we didn't want to take the risk." He clapped Phil on the back with a grin. "Take care of yourselves, okay? There's a sat phone at the safe house. Take it with you; Nat will call when everything is clear."

Jemma touched his arm lightly. "Don't do anything foolish," she said, her smile soft, yet serious. "We're counting on you to be the godfather."

It was difficult to surprise Clint, but she appeared to have done it with a mere handful of words. "Really?" he asked, sincere astonishment written across his face.

"Really." She kissed him quickly on the cheek. "We haven't told Tasha yet, so don't spoil the surprise."

He pulled her suddenly into a hug, looking overwhelmed, and released her just as quickly. "Go," he said, slamming his hand against the door release, and before she quite knew what was going on Phil had scooped her up into his arms and had dashed out into the hangar. She caught a quick glimpse of the door snapping shut behind them, and then it was if it had never been there at all.

There were only twenty or so yards between them and Lola, and she ducked her head down against Phil's shoulder, trying to create as little wind resistance as possible as he ran with the kind of speed that could only come from a mind-sharpening dose of adrenaline. The Hulk roared on the other side of the room as a bullet struck the floor only a few feet shy of them, and there was a sudden crunch that she suspected was the sound of a human body meeting a wall at high speed.

Phil dropped her into the passenger seat with more care than they could really afford, and as she frantically buckled the seat belt he scrambled over the car behind her, almost leaping into his own seat as the group of men who had been facing off against the Hulk pelted toward them.

A bullet pinged off of Lola's exterior, and Jemma found herself laughing in a sudden fit of hysteria as Phil began cursing in a half a dozen languages, his tone making it clear that the majority of his suggestions were anatomically impossible and probably considered deeply immoral by the predominant world religions. She hunched down in her seat, risking a glance back at their pursuers, and realized with some bewilderment that the Hulk was nowhere to be seen.

The scream of torn metal echoed through the hangar, and she looked toward the sound to see that their ally had considerately created a door to the outside for them. He was also flinging the huge sheet of metal in their general direction, which would have been more problematic if Lola hadn't been fine-tuned within an inch of her life. Phil easily swung the car out of the way, and Jemma winced and averted her eyes as the makeshift weapon bowled over the men behind them.

In seconds they were out of the hangar and into the dark night beyond, the headlights revealing the glint of frost on the grass. It was a very cold night, made colder by the speed at which they were traveling, and even at its highest setting the heater was practically useless.

Phil finally landed the car some ten miles away, and Jemma concentrated on trying to make her teeth stop chattering as he began rummaging through the trunk. He tossed several blankets into the car next to her, which she appropriated with the kind of relief she had only felt a handful of times in her life, and bundled herself up in them as he quickly snapped the top of the car into place. The heater, no longer fighting a losing battle, finally began to prove its worth.

He resumed his seat next to her and shook his head when she offered him the remaining blanket. "Other than being half frozen, are you okay?" His hands, when he cupped her cheeks, were just as cold as hers, and she fought her way free of her own coverings long enough to tuck the last blanket over his lap, ignoring his protests.

"Fine, I think." She took careful stock of herself. Cold, tired, hungry- she was all those things, without a doubt, but she didn't feel even the slightest hint of pain in a way that might mean trouble for the baby, and that was good enough for her. "Do you know where this safe house is?"

He pulled the keys Clint had tossed him out of his pocket, and after examining them for a moment pressed one against the GPS. Immediately the screen lit up, displaying a map and a set of coordinates. "Handy," he said in a mild tone, and turned off the headlights. Reaching across her lap to the glove compartment, he pulled out several items, and she squinted in the dim light of the dashboard to examine them. A pair of night-vision goggles, which he immediately put on, and a handful of mysterious objects which he dropped onto her lap. "Looks like it's a few hours away," he said as she discovered to her great pleasure than she was now in possession of a small bag of almonds and several sticks of beef jerky. "Are you okay with music, or would you prefer the quiet?"

Jemma was fairly certain that she could sleep through the apocalypse itself at this point, and the music would help keep him awake. "Music," she decided, and held out the second stick of jerky to him. "You need some protein," she said before he could wave it away. "Do you want to fall asleep behind the wheel?"

"Not particularly, no." He took it from her, making short work of the jerky before fiddling with the sound system. The voice of Etta James spilled from the speakers as Lola took to the air a second time, and Jemma settled back into her seat, as satisfied as she could be considering the circumstances.

"I love you very much," she said into the darkness, and popped an almond into her mouth. "I don't think I say it often enough."

His hand curved over her knee, and she didn't need light to know that he was smiling. "I love you, too," he said, squeezing his hand gently. "I've been thinking about that promise I made to you- the one about wrapping you in silk and carrying you from room to room."

She laughed at the unexpected reminder. "I might have exaggerated a little. I don't intend to loll about; I just don't want to be running for our lives."

"There you go, ruining my plans," he said with a quiet, dramatic sigh. "I was almost looking forward to it."

She moved as close to him as her seat belt would allow and leaned her head against his shoulder, letting her hand rest on his thigh. "I would just get bored and cranky. We'll have this little one to take care of, anyway. You'll need my help."

It would be nice to be exhausted for perfectly mundane reasons. She would take rocking a colicky baby for hours at a time over these mad escapes any day of the week. "I'm going to fall asleep now," she murmured, letting her eyes close and snuggling closer to him. "Just so you know."

"I think that is a very good idea," he replied softly, and patted her knee. "Just relax for a bit."

"Do you think the Hulk would like a cake?" she asked sleepily, not quite sure where the thought had come from, but feeling that it was appropriate nonetheless. "We should probably do something nice for him."

"We'll ask Bruce the next time we see him." He sounded amused, but she had no doubt that he would bake Bruce's alter ego a cake if she asked him to. "Go to sleep, Jemma."

"Everyone likes cake," she said with a yawn, the words blurring together.

"I think the pie contingent would disagree with you."

She yawned again, no longer sure if she were really awake at all, only sure that she was warm and, at least for the moment, safe. "Heretics."

* * *

_AN: "Phil 'I watched you while you were sleeping' Coulson" is in reference to a comment made on the tumblr Texts from Shield._


	38. Cananga odorata

_I see it, the smoke unfolding like a manuscript,_  
_and fire like faces in the deep._

_Don't you know these are your fruits?_  
_Don't you know these are your flowers?_  
-"The Descent of the Corn-Queen of the Midwest," Catherynne M. Valente

Driving using only night-vision was not Phil's favorite of methods- it tended to give him a headache, more often than not- but he was always glad of the technology when forced to use it. At least with Lola he didn't have to worry about hitting unseen ruts or rocks hidden among the grass. It was almost enjoyable in an unearthly way, flying across the dark fields and over hills as Etta's voice flowed from the speakers. Jemma rested heavily against him as she slept, and even if the world seemed determined to go to hell in a handbasket he could at least take comfort in her presence.

He was unhappy at having to leave the others behind- he never had liked to leave anyone behind, regardless of the circumstances- but it was one of those times when staying would have been more dangerous in the long run. There was a possibility that the GH325 would have rendered him just as immune to Lorelei's magic as the Hulk, but he had no intention of testing that theory. Any scenario which might lead to him turning against Jemma must be avoided at all costs; there should never be a time when she had cause to fear his hands or his blank eyes.

Natasha's safe house was a small cottage tucked back amidst the hills, nearly hidden by several tall trees. He parked Lola where the shadows would be deepest during the day and patted her dashboard fondly before shaking Jemma gently awake. They would come back for Lola eventually, or so he hoped, but there was no disputing the fact that a bright red corvette attracted attention, even with its wheels properly on the ground.

Jemma waited near the entrance while he did a quick sweep, and when he returned he found her gazing wistfully around the room. "A pity we can't stay," she said, rubbing the blanket draped over the couch between her fingers. "This is very cozy."

"Natasha has a real knack for spinning an inviting web." She shot him a look of reluctant amusement, and he gave her a grin in return. "I couldn't resist the pun."

"She was planning for us." She picked up the note that rested on one of the suitcases near the door, and skimmed it quickly before handing it to him. "I'm going to change into something a bit more respectable," she said with a wry smile, plucking at her dusty sweatpants. "Be right back."

He wasn't entirely surprised to find that Natasha had prepared for an eventual escape. Theirs weren't the only suitcases near the door: there was a tidy line against the wall, each tagged with the name of a member of their party. Even Fitz and Skye had bags waiting, with what looked to be a laptop case leaning against Skye's.

Her note was quick and to the point- the suitcases held clothing and IDs for both of them, as well as a significant amount of cash. The plain gray sedan- which, if he knew Natasha at all, had a stash of weapons hidden in the trunk- was theirs for the taking. He quickly ran his hands over and inside the suitcases, checking seams and linings for tracking devices. Normally he wouldn't mind letting Natasha pinpoint their location, but what she knew Clint would also know, and on the off chance that Clint was sent after them- well, it was best to be cautious.

The bags came up clean, and he followed Jemma into the small bedroom. She had changed into dark-wash maternity jeans and a sweater, and was removing as much of the dirt and dust as possible from her hair with a damp washcloth. "Everything in the closet and in the drawers has been separated into labeled sections," she said, shaking her head with an amazed look on her face. "Natasha put a great deal of time into this."

"No one prepares quite like Nat," he agreed, finding his designated clothing easily enough. "I'm not sure she ever sleeps."

Jemma tossed the grimy washcloth into a nearby hamper and dampened another in the sink before handing it to him. "Not to sound like your mother, but wash behind your ears," she said cheekily, and if they hadn't been running on a strict schedule he would have grabbed her as she left the room. "I'm going to ransack the kitchen," she called. "Ooh, McVities."

She sounded positively thrilled, and he wracked his brain to try and figure out what she was talking about. "Cookies, right?"

"Digestives," she corrected, and appeared in the doorway, a sleeve of the cookies in her hand. "The chocolate dipped kind."

She left again, a new bounce to her step, and he chuckled as he scrubbed away the grime (including behind his ears, because the dust of the tunnels really had gotten damn near everywhere). When he joined her in the kitchen he found that she had ransacked the cabinets, filling a bag with shelf-stable food and bottled water.

"Dried fruit, more jerky, crackers and nuts..." She shrugged, looking vaguely dissatisfied in a way that told him she probably had some strange craving that Natasha's supplies did not meet. "It should last us for several days. Are you ready?"

"Yes." He grabbed the bag, casting one last look around the room. "A few more hours on the road, then we'll get a room somewhere. We can take a bath, order some room service, sleep in a real bed."

Her moan was downright lustful, and he was ninety-nine point nine percent sure that her excitement had everything to do with the idea of a bath. "Will Lola be okay?" she asked once her dreamy look had abated, and she actually looked concerned.

"Probably." He handed her the bag so that he could carry both suitcases and followed her out the door, intrigued by her question. "You're worried about Lola?"

"We have an understanding," she explained, popping open the trunk of the sedan. "And I've been very fond of Lola ever since the day we officially became engaged."

He certainly had fond memories of that day, as well. "We'll come back for and I have a lot of long afternoon drives in our future. Plus, I'm devising some truly excellent ways to embarrass our future children in front of their friends."

She smiled brightly at that, her face illuminated by the interior light as they took their seats. "Oh, do tell."

"Well, I believe the classic method is to simply exist, at least when it comes to teenagers." He flashed her a grin in the moment before shutting his door, cutting off the light. "I, however, am planning on taking things a step further by joyriding with my beautiful wife in a car that screams 'pay attention to me'."

"As long as we don't get arrested."

"Of course not," he agreed. "Our goal is to enjoy ourselves in a completely legal fashion. No need to give our children ammunition in the 'do as I say, not as I do' game."

She made a considering noise. "You've actually put thought into this. For once I'm behind."

"I'm also thinking of wearing a fedora." He took his time traversing the driveway, which was in poor repair. "Think I could pull one off?"

"I would like to see you in a fedora," she purred. "Shall I start wearing seamed stockings and red heels?"

His mouth went dry at the thought. "Please, do."

"You're going to be a very good father," she said, her tone warmer, less sensual. "I'm looking forward to seeing you prove me right."

"Well," he said, stopping at the entrance to the main road, "as the saying goes, I'm not a regular dad. I'm a cool dad."

She laughed in utter delight, and going on instinct he turned left, toward Wroclaw.

* * *

It was mid-morning when they finally drove into Wroclaw, and Jemma took another close look at her new passport, going over the details of her alias for the twentieth time. Esme Jones, wife of David Jones, a naturalized citizen of Wales by marriage. She had a good feeling about Esme and David, unlike the last aliases they had worn. University professors, perhaps, who lived in a tidy little cottage and spent most of their time reading in front of a fire. They probably had a large, friendly dog who was convinced that he was lap-sized, and a cat that liked to take naps on the hearth.

"How much do you know about late antiquity?" she asked, turning her attention from her passport to the snow-dusted streets. "I think David has probably written several well-regarded monographs on Byzantine art. His students adore him."

"And does Esme adore him?" He had stopped for a light, and was watching her with an expectant look. "I'm counting on you for our backstory."

"Esme thinks David hung the moon. She-"

Jemma stopped mid-phrase, concentrating on what she had just felt. Like- like wings, little fluttering wings inside of her. She tugged her sweater up over the bulge of her belly and placed her hands on the curve, waiting for the gentle flurry of motion to repeat itself.

The driver behind them, obviously impatient, leaned on his horn as Phil tarried past the change of the light. "Jem?"

"The baby is moving," she said, breathless at feeling the brush of wings again. The movement didn't register against her hands- it was too early for that- but their child was engaging in some definite acrobatics. One irritated driver became a dozen, easily, and she felt herself crack a smile. They were creating their own personal traffic jam in Wroclaw, and tears were spilling down her cheeks as she grinned like a fool. "You're drawing attention, Phil. Drive."

He pulled forward suddenly, catching the tail end of the light and leaving a number of irritated drivers behind them. He looked surprisingly stricken. "All of my handkerchiefs are back at the base," he said ridiculously, and somehow it was the best and funniest thing he could have said at that particular moment. His expression turned bewildered as she burst into laughter, still cupping her hands around her stomach.

"I love you," she said amidst giggles, watching his continued confusion. "Esme loves David, and the baby loves you, and we need to find a hotel, because I really want a steak and chips."

"I can do that," he said after a pause. "Iron. Protein. Good idea."

"Have I broken you?" she asked curiously, still grinning. "Should I have waited to say something?"

He released a shuddering breath and grabbed her left hand. "No. No, always tell me," he said, pulling her hand toward him and pressing a fervent kiss to her palm, his eyes on the road. "I know a nice place in the old city. Give me twenty minutes."

The hotel he pulled up in front of was impressive, and she felt her eyes widen as she took in the smartly dressed bellhops and the prompt valet service. "Isn't this a bit… excessive?" she murmured, drawing her coat closer around her casual outfit.

"Lots of businessmen and tourists pass through here," he murmured back, ushering her in with his hand against her back. "Good food, nice rooms- a botanical garden next door, not that it does us much good at the moment." He gave her a winsome smile. "David and Esme are taking a proper babymoon," he added, his accent now distinctly Welsh. "Trust me."

And so she did. Within ten minutes they were escorted to a small, if plush, room, and once the door was closed Phil did a quick sweep as she pulled off her coat and shoes (a more complex task than it had once been). As she padded across the floor to investigate the bathroom he picked up the room service menu. "Chips. That is British for fries, right?"

"Yes," she confirmed, almost drunk at the sight of a bathtub. "Do they have a fruit tart? Something with custard? Order that, too."

She opened her suitcase as the water filled the tub, rummaging through Natasha's formerly neat packing job. Dresses and skirts, mainly, cut to stretch and flatter, and at the bottom of the case were several pairs of classic, low heeled shoes and boots that would get her through nearly any social situation. She was more interested in the comfortable pajamas she had unearthed halfway through the stack, and pulled them free with a triumphant smile. It was eleven in the morning, at best, but she wasn't planning on stirring from the room at any point that day.

He pulled the curtains as she began stripping out of her clothing, then moved closer to her, his gaze soft. "I know I won't be able to feel, but where…?"

She dropped her sweater to the floor and then took his hand, concentrating. The feel was more generalized than in one specific location, but… "Here," she said finally, pressing his hand slightly to the right of her belly button. "She's already practicing her kicks."

He sat on the edge of the bed, his focus still on her stomach, and after a moment leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the same spot. "You keep amazing me."

"It's just biology," she demurred, running her fingers through his hair. "It requires no conscious effort on my part at all."

He chuckled quietly and kissed her stomach again. "Don't be so modest. Let me praise you."

"Very well." She stroked his hair again before pulling away to turn off the tap. "You're right. Pregnancy is a very complex condition, and I am doing splendidly, if I do say so myself."

He was grinning when she looked back at him, though that might have been because she had just shed her last piece of clothing. "You know, this tub is big enough for both of us," she offered, stepping in carefully. "You could join me and continue feeding my ego."

"As tempting as that sounds, I'm going to stay dressed until room service gets here." He moved to stand in the doorway, leaning against the frame as he watched her lay back in the water. "At the very least I'll need to give the guy a tip. Worst case scenario, I toss someone out a window."

"I hope that won't be necessary. I'd much prefer to stay in one place for a few days." She gave him a somewhat anxious look. "Can we? Would it be too suspicious?"

"What's suspicious about a married couple on holiday? We'll let the others clean up the latest problem- and when I say the others, I mean Sif, Nat, and May-"

"And Skye," she interrupted, throwing a wet washcloth in his direction, which he easily dodged.

"And Skye," he agreed. "And then we'll go… somewhere." His amusement was obvious. "The Hulk did us more than one favor when he ripped open that wall. The Playground is no longer secure. We'll just have to go somewhere else."

"As long as I get to take my plants." She picked up a container of sugar scrub and twisted it open. Ylang ylang, seductive and sweet. "Maybe we should just stay on the Bus, like I suggested. At least we know that they're aren't any secret tunnels in the walls; that would be structurally unsound." She turned a narrow-eyed glare on him. "Right, Phil?"

"You are completely correct." He held up his hands, then- and this amused her to no end, though she did her best to hide her smile- he placed his right hand over his heart. "I swear on Cap's shield."

"I believe you." She held up the container and a washcloth and gave him her best coquettish look. "Scrub my back?"

By the time their food arrived she was clean and dressed in brushed cotton and flannel, carefully combing the tangles out of her damp hair. She took one look at her plate and had to resist the urge to clap her hands in delight.

"They appear to have sent you most of the cow," Phil commented dryly, a hint of a smile appearing on his face when she abandoned the comb to hurry over to the table. "I'm going to take a quick shower. Be just a minute."

She merely nodded in reply, too busy chewing a bite of perfectly prepared steak to bother with saying anything. She wasn't sure meat had ever tasted quite this delicious before; but then, given the events of the last twenty-four hours, just about anything would have been a treat.

He was still eating when she moved to the bed, burying herself under the feather comforter with a contented sigh. "Very strange night," she said in a voice thick with fatigue, fighting to keep her eyes open. She wouldn't sleep until he was in bed next to her, and it was almost entirely because he might take it into his head to stay on guard when he was in greater need of sleep than she was.

She sat back up, yawning as she leaned back against the headboard. "Did you get any updates on the situation in Krakow?" Part of Wawel Cathedral had gone up in flames in the early morning hours two days before. The destruction of such a landmark would have been disastrous enough, but the flames had not died out- and the flames could not be put out- and the flames had spread with greedy intent.

He grimaced and pushed away his now empty plate. "They finally pinpointed what started the blaze. Greek fire, and I'm sure you can guess where Hydra obtained it. It's contained, at least for the moment."

It felt like it had been years since Loki's raid on the San Francisco lab- not that she had been aware of it at the time- and it looked as if his early work was finally coming back to haunt them. "I've seen the formula," she admitted, shaking her head slowly. "Tight work. Brilliant, really. It will be difficult to neutralize."

"Exactly the problem." He stacked the dishes neatly, his expression contemplative. "A nice little distraction, perhaps."

She twisted the sheets between her fingers, suddenly antsy. "Sitwell. He led them to the Playground."

"It certainly appears that way, though whether he would have done so without being under the influence is the question." He carried the tray to the door and left the dishes in the hall outside before securing the locks once more. "He could have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Might Loki have known that Asgard would send Lady Sif?" He sat next to her on the bed, and she freed her right hand from the sheets to grab his left. "Could he have known that she would insist on only taking women- and that everyone would try and get us out, if the base was infiltrated?"

His expression did not change, remaining bland and almost unreadable. "A very nice little distraction, indeed," he said finally, his voice cool in a way that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with how neatly they had been played. "They wouldn't be able to know where we would go, but with the situation in Krakow the border patrol is on high alert."

They exchanged a long, slow look. "We're not getting out of Poland, are we?" she asked, knowing the answer.

"Not by conventional means, no." He relaxed slightly, almost forcibly, and switched off the bedside lamp, casting the room in shadow. "But now we both need to sleep. We'll wake up this evening, eat again, and then figure out our next move."

He pulled her gently down onto her side, running a hand over her hair and down her back. "Go to sleep. It's okay."

"Not the same as safe," she pointed out, and he gave her a crooked smile.

"That's the secret," he replied in a soft, confiding whisper. "It's never safe."

And, sadly enough, he was right.

* * *

David and Esme Jones checked out of their hotel the next morning and boarded a train to Warsaw, second-class tickets in hand. The car was crowded and in need of refurbishment, but the large group of backpacking twenty-somethings seated ahead of them provided a very loud distraction. No one noticed one traveling couple when a number of very exuberant young adults were chattering in German and Dutch across the aisles.

The car did smell faintly of cigarette smoke- Phil saw Jemma wrinkle her nose when they first boarded, a faint look of queasiness on her face- but no one was actively smoking, to his relief.

It was a long trip, made longer by increased security measures and the sheer number of people pressing in around them on all sides. The cancelled flights and trains leaving from Krakow had affected transport in the rest of the country, and they were frankly lucky to have secured tickets at all. By the time they arrived in Warsaw night had fallen, and a steady wind kept them company as they left the train station and made their way across town, taking several taxis before finally ending their journey in a crowded, noisy neighborhood in the eastern part of the city.

Jemma shivered beside him as he unlocked the door to the small apartment he had obtained some years before, back when he had been an active operative and had often found himself on assignment in eastern Europe. It was common for field agents to keep and maintain at least a few safe-houses- it was a good practice, and occasionally meant the difference between life and death- though few agents kept quite as many as Natasha and Clint. Phil had not been in this particular apartment since after his first encounter with Thor in New Mexico, and though it was cold and dusty, it had at least not been taken over by mold or vermin since his last visit.

He quickly secured the door (reinforced, though one wouldn't know by looking at it) and pulled two flashlights out of his bag, handing one to Jemma. There were just two rooms, including the bathroom, and his careful search turned up nothing more than the odd spider or dust bunny.

Jemma, meanwhile, had found an old broom and a few rags under the sink, and had managed to take care of the worst of the dirt as he worked, though he heard her sneeze several times as the broom stirred up the dust.

"No power and no heat, but we do have water," he said as he pulled the curtain closed over the one window. There should be candles in the closet, as well as blankets, and he found both exactly where he had left them. The blankets were musty, but he gathered up an armful and placed them on the bed before retrieving several candles.

"Cold water," she replied, sounding surprisingly cheerful for a woman who had just spent eight hours on a train only to be taken to an apartment that was barely habitable. "I don't mind."

Miraculously, she sounded as if she meant it. He lit the candles quickly, and the resulting light made the room look almost welcoming. Jemma tipped the last of her dust pile into the bare trashcan and tucked the broom back into a corner. "We still have food and water, at least," she said, and began to dig through the bag on the small table. "And this," she added with a smile, pulling out several rolls of toilet paper. "Come here and tell me what a genius I am."

He slipped his arms around her, happy to see that she had stopped shivering for the moment. It was marginally warmer inside the apartment, if only because they were out of the wind, but a glance at the local forecast earlier that day had shown dropping temperatures and the possibility of light snowfall. "You always go above and beyond," he told her, smiling when she pressed herself closer against him. "Cold?"

"I'm interested in sharing body heat," she said, slipping her cold fingers beneath his collar without a word of apology. "Just let me eat something, and then we can warm each other up."

They both ate, though he did so after prying up one of the floorboards and pulling out a locked strongbox. As he sifted through IDs and various bundles of currency he ate several handfuls of nuts and dried fruit, not particularly caring what he was eating as long as it provided him with enough calories to make it to the next meal. The contents of the strongbox were essentially useless to them- not the cash, which was always handy, but the passports and visas which all bore his face with a variety of different names and nationalities. It was possible that they could make it over the border, Jemma as Esme Jones and with himself as one of these strangers, but he didn't like the odds.

"Where shall we go next?" she asked later when they were cuddled up skin to skin. They had undressed quickly under the covers, keeping on only the knit caps she had insisted they both wear. Now she had her cold toes pressed against his calves and her head tucked under his chin, and it was definitely the most pleasant night he had ever spent in this particular apartment. "We'll have to move in a few days."

They would, if only because she could only stay in these conditions for so long. "Maybe Gdansk. Lots of tourists in Gdansk. We could make the rounds of the hostels."

Hostels weren't just for the young and drunk, after all, and with their high turnover rates less attention was paid to the guest lists. Married couples traveling on a budget were not uncommon, particularly in the hostels that advertised themselves as family friendly. They had the money to pay for private rooms, and hot water would be a definite plus.

"Esme and David could be backpackers," she mused, her breath warm against his throat. "One last adventure before the baby. We'll need to ditch the suitcases; find some bags that are a bit more portable."

It was a good plan, and probably the best option they had, given the circumstances. "I'll gather what we need in the morning. Soon we'll be sleeping somewhere with central heating."

"A very exciting thought," she said with a quiet laugh. "We certainly have lowered our standards."

"There might even be hot water."

She squirmed against him in a way that couldn't be anything other than deliberate. "I certainly hope so. I don't fancy washing up in cold water for more than a few days."

Her purposeful undulation was signal enough that she was in a randy mood, and the way she nipped gently at his neck and ran her fingers down his chest made him absolutely certain. "Still cold?" he teased, moving down the bed so that he could meet her gaze. "Hardly a romantic atmosphere, love."

"But we're still alive, so that's worth celebrating." She grinned and drew him in for a kiss that he was perfectly happy to reciprocate. He instinctively reached to tangle his hand in her hair, forgetting that she had twined her locks into a neat braid before coming to bed, and instead curved his hand gently around the back of her neck. For a second he missed the feel of her loose hair against his skin (he was very fond of the way it spilled down her back and around her shoulders), but the way she was kissing him more than made up for the lack.

She pulled away just enough so that she could speak, her lips still brushing against his. "Care to keep me warm, Agent Coulson?" she asked in a voice that was pure Agent Simmons. "It's a matter of survival, after all."

"I didn't realize we were in the Arctic," he replied with a smile. "I'm fairly certain this is against SHIELD protocol."

"And here I thought we made our own protocol," she said, adding an exaggerated sigh. "Who will I fondle in abandoned tunnels now?"

His response was more growl than vocalized words, but it seemed to delight her nonetheless.

"Do that again," she ordered, her eyes alight with glee.

"It was a heat of the moment kind of thing," he explained, feeling the blush rising in his cheeks.

"I loved it." Her look turned distinctly predatory. "Growl for me again, Phil."

He stared at her for a long moment, finally producing a growl that was so self-conscious her lips twitched in repressed amusement.

"Hard to do it on command," he said when she finally began to giggle. "Have pity on me, Jem."

"That was brilliant," she said, still laughing. "You have no idea- amazing."

One of her hands snuck between them, wrapping around his cock gently. She grinned at his expression and then produced a credible growl, which- he was forced to admit- was both adorable and surprisingly sexy.

"Please keep fondling me in abandoned tunnels," he said when he could speak again, his voice a bit hoarse. "You make the protocol."

Her enthusiastic response more than made up for the freezing sponge bath he was forced to endure the next morning.

* * *

It did snow in the middle of the night- not a great deal, but enough to make the sidewalks and streets slick. Jemma woke warm, though she could tell that outside of their cozy bed the room was not only cold, but just damp enough to be unpleasant.

"Change of plans," Phil muttered against her back. "We're moving today."

An excellent plan, as far as Jemma was concerned. "What are the chances of some tea?" She stretched, thinking longingly of something- _anything_- hot.

"I think your odds are good." He brushed a kiss, scratchy with stubble, between her shoulder blades. "Maybe a few pastries? There's a bakery down the street, if I recall correctly."

"Sugar," she murmured longingly. "Butter. Please." Her request came out oddly, in a sleepy, blurry, voice, but it hit all the high points.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating slightly against her back. "I think I can supply those things fairly easily."

She felt him move behind her as he groped for his abandoned clothing, and the quiet curse he uttered when he slipped out from under the covers, letting in a cold draft. "No need for us to both suffer," he said when she stirred, and he tucked the blankets more securely around her. "It shouldn't take me very long. Ten minutes, maybe a half an hour, if the bakery closed."

Satisfied, she let herself slip back into a doze, only vaguely registering the muttered stream of obscenities as he washed and dressed in the bathroom. She heard the locks snap into place when the door to the apartment shut behind him, and then the room was quiet.

She slept- she must have slept, because suddenly her little nest was cool and the silence of the room was too silent, as if it had been too long since someone had spoken within the walls. The creeping sense that something had gone awry became a certainty, and she sat up as quickly as she was able, barely noticing the goosebumps that immediately rose on her exposed skin.

How long had he been gone? What time had it been when he left? Early, she had thought, but that was a mere guess. It might have been six in the morning, it might have been eight, but she sensed that it was now much later than either hour.

She scrambled out of bed, flinching at the bite of the cold floorboards against her bare feet, and rummaged through Phil's suitcase, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She hadn't seen a watch among her things, but perhaps among his…

It wasn't a watch that she pulled into the light, but the sat phone Clint had briefly referenced. Just past eleven in the morning. Late, as she had suspected. No matter when he had left, he had been gone far too long to merely fetch breakfast.

Jemma blinked back a sudden spate of tears. "Shit." What had possessed her to ask for tea? She didn't need tea; she needed the man who made ridiculous jokes and let her tuck her cold hands under his shirt. "Shit, shit, shit."

She pressed her hands against her eyes, momentarily overwhelmed by grief and panic. Her toes curled against the floor as she began to shiver.

"Okay," she said quietly, pulling her hands away with a jerk. "Okay. Clothes- clothes are the first order of business."

True enough, but she pushed aside the fact that she had no idea what the second order of business was. To stay or to go? If he had been held up- if he had drawn away the enemy with the intent of sneaking back once the coast was clear, then she could hardly leave, could she?

_Once the appropriate period has passed, you run,_ came Natasha's voice, repeating their rule from Lima. _No exceptions._

"Shut _up_, Nat," she muttered fiercely, scrubbing her skin mercilessly with a wet washcloth. She ignored the tears dripping down her cheeks. "Just shut up."


	39. Rosa mundi

_No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:_  
_Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;_  
_Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, _  
_And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud._  
-Sonnet 35, William Shakespeare

God, his head was killing him.

Phil opened his eyes slowly and cautiously, hissing faintly at the harsh light above. Judging by his fierce headache and the muscle-deep ache in his neck, he was fairly certain he had been injected with some kind of fast-acting sedative. Had he felt the prick of the needle? Perhaps- he had a vague memory of feeling a pinch and spilling Jemma's tea onto his hand as he had spun to check behind him, and then nothing. His right hand certainly felt as if it had received a mild burn in the last few hours.

He was lying on a cot, that much was clear, and the distinctive feel of a handcuff circling his left wrist told him that moving anywhere would take more than a little effort. He blinked a few times, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light, and realized with a jolt where he was.

He was on the Bus, in the interrogation room. He was alone, at least for the moment, and the only sound he heard was the quiet hum of the air filtration system. He was unsure how long he had been out, though he guessed at least an hour- long enough to dump him in a van, drive to the nearest airfield, and move him to a secure room.

A warm room, at that, unlike the cold apartment where he had left Jemma sleeping that morning. Had they found his safe house? They had obviously followed them to Warsaw, and to the same general area of the city, but the bakery he had remembered from years before had closed. He had been at least ten minutes from the apartment, last he remembered, so it was possible that Jemma had escaped their clutches. That didn't change the fact that she had been left alone and vulnerable in a strange city where she didn't speak the predominant language. She still had the sat phone, he reminded himself. She knew Stark's number, and Natasha's, and one of the guns he had liberated from the car was tucked safely in his suitcase with extra ammunition. Most of their money was still in her hands, and the amount of zloty they had could feed and shelter one person for several months, at least.

More importantly, Jemma was brilliant, and Jemma was cautious. He didn't need to worry that she would do anything rash-

Except he did. This was, after all, the same woman who took bold risks in the name of caring for others. He could only hope that her concern for the baby would curb her more reckless instincts.

Phil wasn't entirely surprised when the door swung open to reveal Garrett, though a part of him clung to the hope that this was Garrett under Lorelei's spell. John's first words dashed that hope to pieces.

"It's been a wild ride, right?" John grinned and pulled a chair away from the table, sitting facing the chair back. "So, you obviously guessed that Miss Magic was a distraction. I can't think of any other reason why you would have left that cozy room in Wroclaw, otherwise."

Phil merely stared at him, unwilling to speak until he had a better handle on John's game. He did sit up, biting back any sound of discomfort as he did so.

"Luckily, I remembered that you had a place in Warsaw, though I wasn't quite sure where." John gave him a winning smile. "Somewhere near where we found you, right? Where did you stash the lovely Mrs. Coulson?"

"I can't imagine why you think I would tell you," Phil replied in a voice that was nearly emotionless. "That's the last information I would willingly give out."

"Good point." John held up his hands in mock surrender. "You need some convincing. I understand. A husband doesn't just give up his wife. It would be bad form."

"I don't see why you would need her at all," Phil said, doing his best to give the impression that he didn't particularly care about John's answer. "What would Hydra want with Jemma?"

"Well, she's a brilliant biochemist," John replied with a shrug. "Always nice to have one of those around. And you'll be more cooperative if you know that we have her under our thumb. _And_, most importantly, she's seen the formula for GH325."

Phil considered John's body language, noting the slight tension in his frame that spoke of lingering pain. "Not feeling so good, John?"

Garrett's smile took on a sharp edge. "Those repairs aren't lasting quite as long as Cybertech promised. I'm interested in trying some of that alien bug juice that seems so popular these days. I've waited quite a while for it, Phil."

"It must have driven you crazy when I disappeared for a second time." Phil kept his gaze squarely on John, waiting for a reaction. The pieces of the puzzle made sense, now, at least in part. "Were you hoping that I would lead you to the answer? Was that why the Clairvoyant spent so much time following our every move?"

Garrett shrugged again, his expression that of a kid who had been caught out in a prank. "Never thought too much of that nickname, myself. You really screwed up our timeline, Phil- we could have taken over at least a year ago, if you hadn't decided to play white knight. But you did- to your own advantage, I might add- and here we are."

He stood abruptly, pushing the chair across the room, out if Phil's reach. "So, here is my generous offer. I won't bother asking again where your wife is- I'm not even going to try and torture it out of you, because that just seems like a waste of time for both of us- but when I do find her, and I will, I'll be back." He leaned against the far wall, completely at ease. "If you both cooperate, you can share a cozy little apartment with some truly excellent security features. I'll even let you keep the kid."

"We wouldn't dream of trespassing on your hospitality." Phil kept his voice mild and calm, as if he weren't shackled to the wall in a cell. "As generous as your offer is, I'm afraid we cannot accept it."

"Don't answer too quickly," John cautioned. "I'd be just as happy to ship baby Coulson off to a lab for further study after birth. I'm not sure what I would do with you- you might be a handy specimen yourself, but there is something to be said for simply putting you out of your misery. Jemma, though- Jemma's actually useful."

He pulled open the door. "Think on it, Phil. We've always worked pretty well together."

* * *

The shock of the cold water jolted her back into a better frame of mind, and by the time she was dressed her tears had dried and she was ready to examine her current circumstances in a more rational manner.

The facts: she was alone, she was pregnant, and the odds were very, very good that Phil had been snatched by Hydra, Loki, or both.

Even so, the situation was not entirely hopeless, or so she told herself. Carefully and methodically she unpacked their suitcases and searched the small apartment, making a mental inventory of everything that might prove useful. Money, for one, of which she had a satisfactory pile. A map of Warsaw, which she spread across the table. One gun and its accompanying ammunition. Assorted clothing and toiletries, including a pair of nail scissors that she briefly considered using on her hair.

It wasn't so much vanity that stopped her as cold logic; a bad cut would be more obvious than no cut at all. Better to just tuck her hair under a hat and scarf than risk looking like an urchin.

She found a spare pair of Phil's reading glasses in one corner of his suitcase, and tried them on to see the effect. She did look marginally different in the bold frames, but the prescription skewed her vision just enough to be a potential hazard. She placed them back into their case, which she slid into her purse.

Lastly, of course, was the sat phone, which had rested quietly and innocuously on the table ever since she had checked the time. There were a limited number of people she could call: Natasha, of course, but Stark was also a possibility, as was Fury, as much as she hated to admit it.

It was as she reached for the phone that it rang, the unexpected sound piercing the air. Her hand froze for a moment in surprise, and then she snatched it up, fumbling for the correct button. Natasha was supposed to call when the coast was clear, Natasha was nearby, Natasha would know-

"Natasha?" she said quickly. "Where are you?"

"Warsaw," the very male voice replied cheerfully, and her heart sank as she realized who she was speaking with. "Natasha is still dealing with the situation back at the Playground. You understand, I'm sure."

"Of course," she replied after a long moment. "How was your camping trip, Agent Garrett?"

"A bit boring, so I brought the boys back to base." He chuckled quietly. "Nobody was using the Bus, so I borrowed it. Left Triplett behind, though. Can you guess why?"

"Because he's a company man," she said dully, settling back into her chair.

"Loyal to the core," he affirmed. "By now he's probably kissing Lorelei's boots, but he's never been Hydra material."

She took in a deep breath, holding it for ten counts before releasing it slowly. "And how is Phil?"

"Admiring the decor of his own interrogation room. Those walls really are something, aren't they?"

She continued to breathe deeply, refusing to give any indication that he might have flustered her. "Have you hurt him?"

"Not yet." There was a rustle and a creak on the other end of the line, and she could almost see Garrett sitting in Phil's chair, at Phil's desk. "You could save everyone a lot of trouble if you just gave me your location now."

She was fairly certain that freely giving herself and their unborn child into the hands of the enemy might be one of the few divorceable offenses she could commit, at least in Phil's eyes. "Do you think I'm that foolish?" she asked scornfully, standing slowly and quietly. Could he track her signal? It was certainly a possibility. Carefully she began packing the essentials into her purse, tucking the bank notes into the many small, hidden pockets built into the design. The gun and ammo went underneath the false bottom.

"No," Garrett replied in an easy tone. "No, I don't. I think you're going to lead me on a merry chase through this city, and I respect that. I think it'll be pretty fun, to be honest, so to make it more interesting I will go ahead and tell you that I have eyes on the airports, the train stations, and public transport."

"All of it?" she asked, knowing that she couldn't trust any answer he might give.

"Maybe, maybe not. Buses, metro, trams- that's a lot to cover." She could almost hear his shrug. "Are you feeling lucky, Mrs. Coulson?"

In answer she hung up. Her hands were shaking, to her annoyance, and it took a moment for her to gather her thoughts and dial.

"You are interrupting genius," Tony snapped at the other end of the line, and she nearly tripped over herself to speak before he could hang up on her.

"Tony, it's Jemma. I need your help."

There was no doubt that he could hear the desperation in her voice, and she heard the distant clang of something metal dropping to the floor. A wrench, perhaps. He was most likely in his workshop. "Where are you?" he asked brusquely, the sound of his footfalls echoing over the line. "Where's Agent?"

"Hydra took him. I'm in Warsaw." The quaver in her voice was audible. "We had to separate from the others, and they took him."

"I can work with that. _Jarvis!_" he shouted suddenly, startling her. "Who do we have in Warsaw?"

She couldn't quite hear Jarvis' response, but the steady, measured tone was clear. "East or west, Jemma?" Tony asked after what seemed an eternity.

"East."

Another long pause. "Okay, I need you to get to Castle Square. Can you do that?"

She checked the map. Phil had pointed out their location the evening before, and Castle Square looked to be about five miles away. "Yes. It might take me a few hours- I don't think I can risk public transport."

"Good enough." His voice turned consoling, though in such an awkward, self-conscious way that she immediately gathered it wasn't a tone he used very often. "They won't hurt him, Jemma. They need him for something."

"They won't _kill_ him," she corrected crisply, biting out the words as if they had personally offended her. "They will hurt him, and they'll do it because they can."

The silence on the other end of the line told her that he agreed, and had merely been trying to soothe her anxious mind. "Castle Square," he said finally. "Be careful."

She ended the call, switching the ringer to the next–to-lowest setting before tossing it into her bag. Drawing on her coat, she added a scarf and flipped the hood of her jacket over her head.

Jemma left the apartment, leaving the door unlocked behind her. Phil had the only key, and she had hidden the strongbox underneath the floorboard before leaving. There was little else she could do, short of tossing a lit match behind her as she left.

There was a biting chill in the air outside, and she huddled gratefully in her long coat as she headed west to the nearest bridge. She would have to cross the Vistula River to reach Castle Square, and the wind would be even worse off the water. The bridge would probably be the greatest point of danger on this trip, to her thinking- it would be relatively easy for him to station men on either end, or to hijack the camera feeds. The best solution would be to attach herself to a crowd, perhaps even a group of tourists, and make it look as if she were one of their number.

Thankfully, the streets were crowded, and grew even more so the closer she came to the bridge and the core of the city. She wouldn't exactly categorize her fellow pedestrians as happy- there was an odd feeling in the air, as if one wrong move would lead to a brawl. What tourists there were seemed to be almost forceful in their determination to have a good time, though they, too, regarded the streets with wary eyes. Jemma glimpsed what looked to be a pickpocket slipping through the crowd, and tucked her bag more firmly under her arm.

She spotted the man before she even reached the bridge, and couldn't put her finger on what, exactly, had drawn him to her attention. His demeanor was almost too casual, his walk more a stroll than the brisk pace of someone who had somewhere to be. He was on the other side of the street from her, walking sedately past restaurants and shops. Jemma hoped that her brief moment of recognition had not shown in her gate, and forced herself to keep up her former pace, though it was just a smidge too fast for her comfort. The exercise was making her sweat beneath her coat, despite the temperature, but she didn't dare drop her hood or loosen her scarf.

Was he keeping pace with her? It almost appeared to be so, though he hadn't seemed to speed up or slow down. As best she could tell, from the corner of her vision, he hadn't even glanced in her direction.

_Justifiable paranoia,_ she told herself, trying to keep her expression calm. _Keep walking, keep walking, keep walking..._

He stopped at the last crosswalk before the bridge, lingering on the corner as he waited for the traffic to clear. Her shoulders tensed slightly as he disappeared from view, knowing that within minutes he would be behind her with every advantage.

She slipped in behind a group of tourists from France at the beginning of the bridge, exchanging a smile with a woman roughly her own age. "Quelle heure est-il, s'il vous plaît?"

"Il est midi et demi," the woman replied after checking her watch, and shivered at a particularly rough gust of wind, muttering a curse under her breath. She quickened her steps to catch up with her friends, and Jemma did her best to stay on the fringes of their group without arousing suspicion.

She was on her last nerve by the time she reached Castle Square, the urge to check behind her so strong that it was almost all she could think about. There were scattered groups of people across the expanse, but no one who appeared to be waiting for her- but then, she could hardly expect them to hold up a sign.

Jemma continued walking along the outskirts of the square, too nervous to settle in any one place. She paused briefly, as if to inspect the menu posted outside one of the restaurants, and caught out of the corner of one eye the same man dawdling roughly twenty yards behind her near, bizarrely, someone sitting on a low wall in a panda suit.

"Are you hungry?" came a voice from beside her, and she turned, startled, to meet the eyes of a regal, self-possessed woman who regarded her with an assessing gaze. "You probably want to sit down, after the walk you just made."

"Pardonnez-moi," Jemma replied, unsure if her new companion was a friend or foe. "Je ne parle pas Anglais."

"Your accent is very good," the woman said approvingly, and took her arm so adroitly that Jemma was in her grasp before she even realized it. She could try to break free- the other woman was in her sixties, possibly her seventies- but the grip on her arm was surprisingly strong. "A mutual friend asked me to find you," she continued, pulling Jemma along with her. "Well, friend might not be the right word- I owe Mr. Stark a debt, much to my annoyance."

Jemma took a closer look at her, but did not speak. The man was still behind them, she could tell, and she half-expected to have her other arm gripped at any second.

"Really, my debt is not so large that I would usually do this kind of work." They were at the edge of the square, now, and ahead a uniformed man opened the door of a gleaming black car. "But Melinda would ask the same favor of me, if she knew."

"May?" Jemma asked quietly, seeing the woman in a new light.

"I try to keep up with my daughter's friends," she replied serenely, and gave Jemma the slightest push against her back. "Get in before our tail decides to cause a scene."

For a moment it almost seemed as if they might actually get away with it, that the man's chosen path had been a mere coincidence, but then a bullet struck the side of the car as Jemma slid inside and all hell broke loose.

"This is always my favorite part," May's mother confided with a calm smile as their car peeled away from the square, the panic of the crowd audible behind them. "Buckle your seatbelt."

Even if Jemma hadn't already been in the process of doing so, her tone of utter authority would have made her fly to attention immediately. "Do you work for SHIELD?" she asked as the car swung around a corner, instinctively reached for the handle above the door.

"Oh, no," May's mother replied, balancing herself in such a way that she had no need of handles, but rather swayed with each wild turn. "I have my own agency."

"Oh," Jemma said weakly, bracing herself against the door. "How lovely. What- what should I call you?"

"Mrs. May will do admirably." She gave Jemma a slight smile. "Now, when I tell you to run, I expect you to do just that."

"I wouldn't dream of disobeying," Jemma replied honestly, and squeezed her eyes shut as the driver swung the car into oncoming traffic on a one-way street. "Just tell me when."

* * *

For all that Garrett had said he wouldn't torture Phil for information on Jemma, Phil did not expect him to keep that promise, and so was ready when Garrett ordered several men to tie him to a chair in the center of the room. He put up a token struggle- they would have been suspicious if he had not, but he had already evaluated the situation and realized that this was not his time to attempt an escape- and the blow he received from one of the men left him temporarily stunned.

Worse than the pain was what Garrett placed on the table in front of him.

"She'll be fine," John said in a jovial tone, as if Phil weren't staring at one of Jemma's blood-stained sweaters. He allowed his expression to shift, just slightly- a hint of panic, a quickening of breath- and his acting job seemed to please the man across the table. "Don't worry, Phil. We've got her under observation in the lab. They only knocked her around a little bit."

Phil placed the odds of them actually having Jemma in custody as slim to none, though feared he might be kidding himself. It was the same sweater Jemma had been wearing on the train, and there was no reason why she would have worn it two days in a row. Even if she had, there was too much blood on the sweater for the injuries to be minor. Jemma was important to them- too important to injure- and that was the lynchpin of his sanity at that moment. They wouldn't harm a hair on her head, if at all possible.

Still, he allowed his horror at the thought to leak through the calm mask he wore. "I want to see her."

"Nah." John grinned and gestured at the camera near the door. "She can see you, though. Mrs. Coulson is surprisingly stubborn. Even after a black eye and a busted nose she's still refusing to say much of anything. I mean, I get why," he continued, crossing his arms casually and leaning back in his chair. "Obviously we don't want to hurt the kid, and she knows it. You, though- we don't mind hurting you."

They didn't even have to have Jemma in custody to make hurting Phil worth their time. If she wasn't watching the feed live, they would use the recording as a lure. "What makes you think she loves me more than the baby?" Phil asked coolly. "You know how mothers are. Their priorities shift."

"You have a point." John shrugged. "We could do everything short of sticking a knife in your guts and not make a dent in her resolve."

"So you're just going to torture me for the hell of it."

"Maybe. Or maybe I spent a good bit of time watching the way that Mrs. Coulson looks at you." The look in John's eyes was much too perceptive for Phil's liking. "Watching the way she acts around you. She'll keep silent for a while, because of the kid, but she won't let you scream for too long. It's not in her nature."

True, on all counts. "Might as well get started, then." He had been tortured before, and by men more skilled than John Garrett. "What's it to be, John? Drugs? Fists?"

"What do you think, Flowers?" John asked, the question puzzling Phil for a moment. "You said you wanted the job."

The door swung opened soundlessly behind Garrett, and Raina stepped into the room, her silk floral dress impeccable. John stood, and with a mocking bow offered his chair to her. "I think we'll talk first," she said smoothly, accepting the chair. "Agent Coulson, being the gentleman that he is, deserves that much."

Garrett waved his men out of the room, and one cuffed Phil roughly on the head as he passed. "That was very rude," Raina said, looking honestly offended, and Garrett literally kicked the man out the door, an amused expression on his face.

Phil kept silent as the room cleared, tasting blood from when he had bitten his tongue during the unexpected assault.

Finally alone, they exchanged measured looks. Raina folded her hands neatly on the table in front of her, her expression now smooth and impassive.

"It has been quite a while since our last talk," she said finally. "I admit, I was surprised when I heard about your marriage. I wasn't expecting you to get over your lovely cellist quite so easily."

That had not been the tack he had expected her to take, but he maintained his bland façade. "People move on."

"Oh, of course," she agreed. "Men more so than women, I've noticed, but that is to be expected, I suppose."

She watched him carefully, and despite his efforts seemed to catch something that pleased her. "She still loved you."

She did not emphasize the use of the past tense- it was spoken just as delicately as everything else she said- but it jumped out at him nonetheless. She was, without a doubt, one of the most skilled interrogators that he had ever met.

"And you tell me this, why?" he asked.

She lifted one eyebrow, the gesture so expressive that it relayed a world of meaning. "She died screaming your name," she said, seeming to embody the very image of quiet sorrow. "Imagine how Jemma would feel if you died screaming hers."

* * *

_AN: There actually is a Sad Panda who hangs out in Castle Square on a regular basis, or so TripAdvisor tells me._


	40. Prunus avium

_AN: With apologies to Arthur Miller and Tom Lehrer._

* * *

_Out of the nursery and into the garden_  
_where it rooted and survived its first hard winter,_  
_then a few years of freedom while it blossomed,_  
_put out its first tentative branches, withstood_  
_the insects and the poisons for insects,_  
_developed strange ideas about its height_  
_and suffered the pruning of its quirks and clutters,_  
_its self-indulgent thrusts_  
_and the infighting of stems at cross purposes_  
_year after year. Each April it forgot_  
_why it couldn't do what it had to do,_  
_and always after blossoms, fruit, and leaf-fall,_  
_was shown once more what simply couldn't happen._

_Its oldest branches now, the survivors carved_  
_by knife blades, rain, and wind, are sending shoots_  
_straight up, blood red, into the light again._  
-"The Cherry Tree," David Wagoner

There was a brief moment when her words inspired just the kind of emotional turmoil that she had doubtless been after, and then it all fell apart. "Grace kind of hates me, you know." He met her gaze squarely, and she looked intrigued by the sudden shift in the conversation. "If she was screaming my name, it was out of pure fury."

"You really don't care, do you?" She tilted her head slightly to the side. "How you've changed, Agent Coulson."

"I would care if I believed you," he answered calmly. "It was a good play, Raina. Certainly worked last time, but you don't have Jemma, and you don't have Grace."

"You're sure?" She assessed him slowly, and finally smiled and sat back in her chair. "Very well. I know when I'm beaten."

"I doubt that's the only stinger you have prepared." He gave the sweater on the table a conspicuous glance. "Obviously you found the apartment. Whose blood did you use?"

"That of an unfortunate chicken." She seemed amused by his deductions. "I told Garrett that they had used too much blood, but he insisted on a show."

"He always was fond of drama." He wasn't entirely sure where this interrogation was going- she was too calm, too relaxed- but it was obvious that she had a contingency plan.

"For a shadow organization, Hydra seems to be filled with such men." She shook her head, _boys will be boys_ practically written across her face. "Dr. Dorian is the same way. I can't argue with the results, but his methods were a bit excessive. Some of the footage is difficult to watch."

Phil carefully kept a straight face, resisting the urge to look away. "I'm not surprised that he filmed the surgeries."

"Oh, he monitored Jemma constantly," she replied in gentle correction. "Most of the footage from her cell isn't worth watching, of course. I think he was hoping that she would start to levitate in her sleep, or something along those lines."

"How very disappointing for him."

"It's difficult to get a feel for her character, even after eight months worth of data," Raina continued in a musing fashion. "She cried a lot, but that is a fairly standard response to such a situation. Really, they kept her too sedated to be very interesting. The incident with the nurse, though- you can see the dawning horror on her face in the split second after she makes the cut. It makes for very compelling imagery."

She shifted in her seat slightly, her gaze compassionate. "Would you like to see it?"

No. He most certainly did not want to see even a second of that footage. "I'm not in the mood for a movie," he replied as casually as possible. "Maybe later."

She shrugged delicately. "With all due regard to your preferences, I'm afraid that I have my heart set on it." She stood and moved to the door, and when she opened it several lackeys entered, carrying a laptop and projection equipment. "Normally I would start at the beginning," she explained as the men left and she began to set up the array, "but I doubt we have eight months to spare, so I think a compilation of the highlights is in order."

Protesting would do him no good, in this situation. They would want him to protest, they would want to see his reactions to Jemma under the knife. It didn't matter that she was healthy and hale now (or had been, when last he had seen her, an important but unfortunate distinction). She was his weak point, and he could hardly pretend otherwise.

"They spared no expense on their security feeds," Raina said as the first images began to play across the screen. Jemma, asleep on a small bed, her limbs in the kind of disarray that indicated she had been carelessly dropped onto the mattress. She was still wearing one of her collared shirts and cardigans; if he had to guess, he would say that it was very early in her confinement. The first night, most likely. "But having only one angle is a bit of a disappointment."

One angle was enough to capture the moment when Jemma woke, blinking in confused disorientation at the ceiling before rolling off of the bed, her hands barely catching her fall. She swayed slightly on her hands and knees, obviously still caught in the grip of whatever she had been dosed with, before carefully pulling herself up to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Wouldn't it just be easier to break a few of my fingers?" he asked Raina, and she nodded immediately.

"Easier, of course. But that wouldn't have nearly the same impact." She gestured toward the screen, where Jemma was slowly making her way to the door, keeping one hand against the wall as she walked. "She still trusts that the door will be unlocked. She was quite innocent once, wasn't she?"

The feed didn't show the expression on Jemma's face when she found the door locked, but he saw her slow hesitation after the first futile twist of the knob, and could imagine what she might be thinking: that the catch was jammed, that the lock had been accidentally engaged, that she might actually be dreaming in her safe bed.

He averted his eyes as she twisted the knob again, harder, and Raina tapped her fingers quietly on the table. "Attention must be paid, Agent Coulson."

Steeling himself- because this would not be the worst moment, by far- he turned his attention back to the screen in time to see Jemma stumble back from the door, almost falling to the floor as she hastened back from the armed doctors in crisp lab coats. Her face was pinched with worry and incomprehension, and he flexed his hands uselessly against the back of the chair in response. Day one of two-hundred and forty-three. What an idiot he had been, to let it drag on for so long.

"She was so sweet," Raina murmured, and turned her head to stare at him. He was drawn to meet her gaze, her eyes almost hypnotic. "Is she still sweet?" she asked in the quietest of voices.

He gave her his best blank stare, some distant part of him thankful for his extensive training in resisting even the most emotional of interrogation tactics. The problem was that the young man he had been at the time did not fully comprehend love in this form- love for his mother, of course, and love for Captain America, of a sort, but his experiences with romantic love had been shallow, at best.

"She is," Raina seemed to decide finally, turning back to the screen. "She's still sweet. It's why you love her, at least in part. She speaks softly to you, doesn't she? She laughs at your jokes and strokes your hair, and she smiles when you reach for her at night. And now she carries your child."

_Our child_, he thought, keeping the words buried deep within him. All true things, otherwise, though Raina seemed to be suffering under the impression that Jemma was a submissive party in their relationship. That might be purposeful, on her part; casting Jemma as vulnerable in order to arouse his most protective instincts.

"It was cruel of them, to leave her aware on that first night." Raina's voice, though still soft, had turned almost clinical. "She starts to panic as the drug wears off. She bruises her fists as she beats them against the door." She fast-forwarded as she spoke, and as the footage flashed by Jemma's movements grew ever more frenzied.

"They slipped a sedative into her morning tea," Raina continued, the feed jumping ahead, though in triple time. "She was so exhausted she drank it. She doesn't stop trusting her food until much later. You wouldn't have made that mistake," she said with a slight shake of her head. "That's when they came for her. They stripped her, they bathed her. They removed the unnecessary pieces of furniture from her room until only the bed was left. You could probably make a weapon out of one of the screws, but they don't train scientists to do that kind of work."

She regarded him silently for the space of almost a minute, and he stared right back at her, barely blinking.

"Her first surgery next, I think," she said finally, tapping a few keys on the laptop. "She actually did have a surprise attack of appendicitis. They had to push back their schedule by nearly two weeks."

He resisted the urge to utter a pithy comment in reply- _how very sad for them_, perhaps- but knew that in his current frame of mind it would come out wrong. It would be too revealing.

Raina did not seem deterred by his silence. "First incision," she said. "I'll talk you through it."

* * *

Jemma briefly worried that the authorities would attempt to pull them over, making a bad situation worse by the factor of roughly a thousand. Thankfully, when the police did arrive, it was clear that their attention was focused solely on those pursuing them.

"Embassy plates," Mrs. May said calmly. "My assistant helpfully notified the local authorities that we were being followed by hostiles." She settled back into her seat, looking completely composed. "How is my daughter?"

"Quite well," Jemma managed to say eventually, when her heart rate began to slow to something approaching normal. Their tail was still a threat, but the driver, distracted by the police, had dropped behind. "When last I saw her."

"And how is Phil?" She clasped her hands lightly and decorously on her lap, and Jemma was suddenly reminded of one of her more terrifyingly proper aunts. "I once thought that he would father my grandchildren." She gave Jemma a look that, while not unkind, spoke volumes. "Melinda was stubbornly against it."

Jemma refrained from speaking, not knowing how to diplomatically reply to such a statement. She had the feeling that if she did speak, it would be some variant on _he's mine, dammit,_ and suspected that the reckless urge was largely hormonal.

"Still, he's a good man. He deserves to be happy." Mrs. May turned to glance out the window as the car swung into a parking lot. "Especially after that dreadful debacle in New York." She unbuckled her seatbelt as the car came to a screeching halt, and gestured for Jemma to do the same. "Run."

Running really was dreadfully awkward at this stage, especially as she felt as if her center of gravity were just on the verge of shifting. It certainly did not help that the bra she was wearing was not meant for high-impact exercise, even in short bursts. She was grateful to tuck one arm tightly across her aching breasts once she was securely in her seat on the helicopter, fumbling the noise-cancelling headphones over her ears with her free hand. For the moment, at least, Jemma was too short of breath and too irritated in general to worry overly much about the people still chasing them. She let her head fall back against the seat as they took off and closed her eyes, focusing on the light flurry of movement she felt inside of her. A good sign, or so she hoped.

May's mother was watching her when she opened her eyes again a few minutes later. Neither of them spoke- not that it would have mattered, given the amount of noise surrounding them- but she did pat Jemma lightly on one knee, her composed expression tipping just slightly into what was either amusement or compassion. Difficult to tell, really.

She closed her eyes again, trying to concentrate on slowing her still rapid breathing. Now that their pursuers were no longer an immediate threat, her mind turned back to Phil, which did not help her anxiety in the least. He was on the Bus, or at least had been, if Garrett had been telling the truth. The Bus was too great an advantage for Hydra to give up, so it was likely that her former home now crawled with enemy agents.

Jemma had not spent very much time in the interrogation room- it had never been her space on the Bus, so to speak, and after her initial tour of the plane she had rarely stepped foot inside of that particular room. She remembered the general look and the sparse furnishings, and knew the various tricks that had been built into the walls and ceilings. Sound-proofing, the hatch in the ceiling, the panels cleverly hidden in the walls that concealed restraints. She had never thought much about the latter before, back in the day when she had thought that SHIELD would never use torture as a means of coercion, but she found herself thinking about those restraints now, not liking the thought of them circling Phil's wrists.

Not that restraints would contain him forever. She knew better than most how strong he still was, and knew that if need be, he would have no problem with dislocating a thumb to slip out of handcuffs. Still, Hydra's history made it clear that they never shied away from true harm if they thought it would be to their advantage. She didn't like to think about what they _could_ do to him, though her vivid imagination was happy to inform her.

_I'm going to be a clingy mess once we finally find him_, she thought, resigning herself to the inevitable hormonal whirlwind that lay in her future. A pity she couldn't unilaterally call a cease-fire in this ridiculous war they were embroiled in. Between Phil's threatened fussing and her desire for an extensive cuddling session, she had a feeling it would be at least a week before she felt ready to share him with everyone else, and that was assuming he wasn't badly injured.

And if he were badly injured- well, Jemma found that the thought inspired less fear than rage inside of her. A ridiculous kind of rage, perhaps, because she was not in a state that would allow her to actually rain down retribution on those who went against her, but the idea of doing so was grimly pleasing. Maybe Natasha would help? Natasha would probably help.

It was easier to let herself consider fanciful revenge plots for the rest of their flight, rather than dwell on what her husband might be enduring at that moment. She didn't open her eyes again until after they landed with a small jolt, the surprise of the landing pulling her from far-too-detailed consideration of how best to castrate a man- Garrett, naturally- and equally detailed consideration of how lovely it would be to shrink Loki to the size of a bug and squish him under her shoe.

And then there was Lorelei. She mused over the problem as she climbed out of the helicopter, placing a hand over her hat as the wind created by the still churning blades threatened to snatch it away. After a moment she decided that it would be very satisfying to smack the woman on the head with a fire extinguisher.

They had landed in the middle of a courtyard in front of a large, well-maintained estate. There was no other word for it; Fitzwilliam Darcy would have been pleased to make this his summer home. Jemma glanced quickly around herself as she followed Mrs. May into the house, noting the high courtyard walls and the delicate embellishments that topped them. The curving metal looked decorative, but she was willing to bet that the lovely loops which glinted in the sun were razor sharp.

"Let me show you to your room," Mrs. May said, her tone indicating she would not be argued with, as Jemma instinctively edged away from a very delicate vase near the entry-way. "You were on your feet for too long; you should lie down."

Jemma quickly followed the other woman up the stairs, half-afraid that tarrying would end with her bedroom door being locked from the outside. An irrational thought, perhaps, but Jemma wasn't feeling entirely rational. Perhaps she was overtired. She was certainly hungry, and that might account at least in part for her vengeful fantasies.

"I'll make sure they bring you something to eat," she said, stopping outside of a door. "There is a bathrobe in the wardrobe that you can use. Normally I would not leave a guest for so long," she added, a hint of humor in her eyes, "but I have other things to attend to."

Jemma was fairly certain that those 'other things' would either benefit or imperil international security, and decided it would be best if she just didn't know. "Thank you." Suddenly her bag felt too heavy and her coat much too warm, and she was glad of the opportunity to lie down for a while. "I'm sorry for inconveniencing you."

"I've been very bored recently," Mrs. May replied with a shake of her head, and began to walk away. "And this way I get to check in on my daughter. Melinda does not call often enough."

Jemma stared dumbly after her for a few seconds, realizing that she had never actually considered that May was actually someone's daughter. The stories at the academy made her seem more like Athena, springing fully formed from the head of Zeus- or perhaps the SHIELD emblem, in this case. Ridiculous, in retrospect, and she mentally chastised herself for being in such a silly state as she entered her temporary quarters.

Unsurprisingly, the room was spacious and light, with a large bed that made her sigh in audible longing. Rather than collapse on it immediately, she placed her bag on the dresser and pulled off her coat, hanging it neatly in the closet. She claimed the waiting bathrobe after doing so, and strode with great intent into the en suite.

She didn't enjoy the shower or meal nearly as much as she normally would have, and she found herself picking at her (admittedly delicious) food despite the fact that she actually was very hungry. "Imagine how he would worry," she muttered aloud, and forced herself to make a dedicated effort to clear her plate. Even the comfortable bed fell short, stricken as she was by the dual knowledge that it would be much more comfortable with him in it, and that his present accommodations were likely very uncomfortable indeed.

She was still staring at the wall an hour later, fully awake, when the phone tucked in her purse began to ring faintly. She stared in its direction for a moment, unsure if she truly wanted to know who was on the other end of the line, but equally knowing that she had no choice but to pick up. Whoever was calling was persistent, which was fortunate, given the amount of time it took her to get back onto her feet and across the room.

"Hello?"

At first there was silence on the other end of the line, and then a quite audible thud. She flinched, recognizing the sound of something hard striking flesh, and a woman spoke.

"Do you remember me, Jemma?"

The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but Jemma could not remember how or why. "Who is this?"

Another thud in the background. "This is Raina," the woman informed her, her voice calm. Jemma remembered, now, the woman in the flower-strewn dresses. "Agent Garrett insisted that I... take a break in my duties, and I wanted to speak with you while I had a moment."

A third thud produced a grunt, this time, and Jemma's heart sank. "What did you wish to discuss?"

"Skye." Jemma could imagine Raina tilting her delicate head slightly to the side, keeping her eyes trained on whatever was happening to Phil- because Jemma was quite confident that Phil was the one currently receiving such violent largesse. "I want to talk about Skye."

It had been so long since Jemma had last thought of Skye's 084 status that it took her a few seconds too long to reply. "Is that the information Garrett is after?"

"No. He doesn't think very far beyond his need for GH325 these days," Raina replied, gentle amusement in her tone. "No, I'm the one interested in Skye."

"I'm afraid I know very little about her past." True enough, from a certain perspective. "I'd like my husband back in good condition, please."

"Agent Garrett would be pleased to let you have him, provided you come to collect him personally."

Jemma's smirk held very little humor. "Yes, I'm sure such an exchange would go very well for everyone," she replied tartly, and heard a small sigh from Raina.

"Hit him again," she said, and the connection died.

Jemma stared at the phone in horror, a surge of nervous nausea roiling in her stomach. "Oh, fuck," she whispered weakly, and jumped when the phone rang again. "Yes?"

"Hey, Jem." A man, his tone casual and relaxed. "It's Clint. Nat," he said, his voice growing fainter, "tell Jemma that I'm not possessed."

"He's not possessed," she heard Natasha shout, and could imagine the eye-roll that most likely accompanied it.

"Though we appear to be missing one very large plane." Clint again, somehow sounding casual despite the situation. "On a scale of one to ten, how irritated do you think Phil will be about us losing the Bus?"

Jemma shuffled back to the bed and sat on the edge. "Phil hasn't lost the Bus," she said, the words coming out odd, almost inflectionless. "He's currently in its interrogation room."

"I'm sorry," Clint replied after a moment. "Run that by me again?"

"Garrett is Hydra. They sent in Lorelei as a distraction and they snatched Phil off the street after we made it to Warsaw." She sniffed, brushing a tear from one cheek. "I never should have asked for tea."

The fact that the last sentence came out in a rush of panicked emotion was regrettable.

She heard him curse faintly and yell something, presumably in Russian, to Natasha. "Jem, where are _you?_ I swear, if you snuck into the wheel well and are now hiding in one of the lab storage closets, I will pout at you for the next ten years, at least."

"I don't know where I am," she replied honestly. She didn't even know what direction they had traveled in. The sudden burst of obscenities on the other end of the line reminded her of why that might not have been the best line to lead with. "I called Tony," she said firmly, unsure if he could even hear her. "And Tony called May's mother, and she took me- somewhere."

Silence.

"Director May?" If she wasn't mistaken, there was a hint of fear in Clint's voice. "Did we know that Tony knows Director May?" he asked suddenly, clearly directing the question to Natasha.

"I knew," she said, most likely with a shrug.

"Very helpful," Clint muttered. "We're going to find him, okay, Jemma?"

"They have my number," she admitted, hating the quaver in her voice. "They're beating him, Clint."

"Well, luckily we have a number of people who will be perfectly happy to beat them right back," he responded, his voice cool. "Everyone got through the battle just fine, though the base will never be the same again."

She flushed, feeling sudden shame for not having asked after the others. "I feel so useless, Clint."

"You are doing exactly what you should be doing," he said, utterly serious. Jemma could hear, distantly, the sound of raised voices somewhere near him. "You found the best way out of a sticky situation, and now you're going to stay where you are safe so that you can protect the baby. Besides, can you imagine what Phil would do to us if you showed up for the rescue? Phil would carve out my eyes with a spork, Jem. I'm begging you, stay safe, if only because I like being able to see."

She laughed weakly at that, moving to lean back against the pillows and tuck her cold feet under the blanket. "When you find him, tell him that he is permanently excused from fetching me tea for the rest of his life."

"Ha! No." A thread of his usual good humor had appeared back in his voice. "You tell him. You'll just cave after he gives you a disappointed look and asks if he's been steeping the leaves for five seconds too long."

"He makes lovely tea," she muttered, belatedly adding, "especially for an American."

"I'll tell him you said so." He took in a deep breath that echoed over the phone as the voices in the background grew even louder. "Be kind to yourself, Jem. We'll bring him back soon."

"Thank you," she whispered, punching one fist ineffectually into a pillow. "Be careful, Clint."

* * *

The beating was a relief. He had been trained to endure physical violence, and the pain distracted him from Raina's far more sophisticated and effective means of torture. She didn't spare him the worst moments- she had obviously previewed the extensive footage, had marked the pertinent bits- so he saw the surgeries in all their horrible glory.

She also showed him the smaller, quieter moments of Jemma's life in those early months, and in some ways those moments were the worst. It seemed as if they kept her lightly sedated, in the early days: she questioned the doctors in a halting, blurred voice, her words ranging from reasoned appeals to their apparently nonexistent ethical code to simple pleas to stop, stop, stop.

The footage was meticulously time-stamped, and as the weeks went on it became clear that they were either increasing her dosages or that she had simply grown too tired and too heartbroken to keep protesting. He didn't like to even think the word 'broken', but she seemed to withdraw and fade right before his eyes. By the end of the first month she had stopped holding herself straight and attempting to neaten her hair. By the end of the second month she had stopped speaking entirely.

They hadn't reached the fateful lumbar puncture in month five yet. Phil was hoping that one of Garrett's men would do him a favor and simply leave him unconscious.

"Hit him again," Raina said, and strode over to the table, petite even in her towering heels. As his vision cleared after another punch to the gut he saw the sat phone she had left next to her laptop. "I don't think Jemma's dealing very well with this," she said, almost in sympathy, and tapped a finger on the phone. "You would be proud of her, though. She didn't offer to trade herself for you. She didn't betray classified information. It's useless, though. She'll come eventually."

"Doubtful." His tone was bored, as was his expression. "She might miss me, but she'll be taken care of. Fitz or Banner would be just too happy to step in and play daddy to the baby."

Raina just gave him a pitying look. "They might be willing to do so, but I doubt she would let them." She reclaimed her chair. "Maybe at some point she would marry again, but she wouldn't let anyone lead that child astray. 'That's daddy', she would say, every time your picture appeared." She turned the laptop slightly so that the screen faced him. "Let's take a picture now, shall we? We'll get it to her somehow."

He examined the result dispassionately. Certainly not the worst beating he had ever received, though he had no doubt that there would be more of this going back and forth as Raina worked her way through the footage. "I'm not sure that photography is your medium," he finally said in a mild tone, meeting her eyes, and she smiled.

"Perhaps watercolors," she said, and gestured for the men to leave, her other hand resting lightly on the keyboard. "I believe we left off here."

* * *

A tray was brought to her door that evening, along with a selection of clothing. The message was obvious: stay put. Don't stray. Jemma wasn't inclined to stir beyond her door, in any case; no matter how friendly relations might be between SHIELD and Director May's own agency, they would not be improved by a nervous ex-agent wandering where she ought not. After eating and changing into a pair of loose pajamas she briefly debated the pros and cons of locking her bedroom door. She had not been locked _in_, which was a blessing, but she knew she stood a better chance of actually sleeping with the lock engaged. Still, she did not wish to offend.

In the end, she did lock the door, reasoning that if anyone in this household wished to speak with her they were perfectly capable of picking their own locks. The locked door was more for her psychological benefit than anything else.

It was very dark here, wherever here was, and she pulled the blanket up around her shoulders and over the pillows she had arranged around her body. Once she had squirmed into a comfortable enough position she found herself at a loss in a room filled with shadows, her gaze still aimed in the direction of the bedside table where the phone rested.

"We'll just do the elements, there's a good girl," she muttered to herself, and resolutely shut her eyes. "There's antimony, arsenic, aluminum, selenium, and hydrogen, and oxygen and nitrogen and rhenium..."

She recited the whole song softly, whispering the words faintly under her breath. Finding herself at the end and feeling no better, she began again.

And again.

And again.

And so on.

* * *

Raina was courteous, in an odd way. She wouldn't allow him to sleep, but supervised bathroom privileges were allowed. Water was offered, but declined on his part. She was applying what she had learned about him several years before to his current interrogation, and while that was not an always successful strategy, she was doing well enough with it.

They did leave him alone for a stretch of nearly six hours, at one point, presumably so that his captors could enjoy the rest they were denying him. Raina left the footage running, electing to return to a day early in Jemma's captivity.

Theoretically Phil could have slept through it. It wasn't a surgery; it was just hours of Jemma sleeping fitfully or pacing the small room, her steps going from shaky to confident as the sedative began to wear off. She was talking to herself as she paced, first whispering something in a steady rhythm that he finally recognized as the periodic table-

_argon, krypton, neon, radon, xenon, zinc and rhodium_

-before logically analyzing her current circumstances, her oft-repeated mantra not what he would have expected.

_Agent Coulson will come for me._

He would have expected her to be sure that Fitz would come for her, but instead it was his name he heard over and over. This, then, was the reason Raina had left this particular piece of footage to play, as a reminder of how he had failed Jemma's trust in him. Even as her superior officer he had failed her, because by all rights she should have expected him to fulfill his duty to protect the agents working under his authority. He was the one who had failed to honor his part of SHIELD's social contract.

He knew what was coming, not just a few months down the road but within the hour, at least, and so he was not surprised when the door opened on screen and one of the doctors joined her in the small room.

The doctor led with cold, blunt words. _You can no longer be trusted in the field. You are a danger to your team._

Jemma stood straighter, obviously alarmed and confused. _What did you find? What's wrong with me?_

The doctor continued as if she hadn't even spoken. _You cannot be trusted with yourself. You are now a ward of this agency._

_This is against regulations. You can't simply decide to keep me here._ There was a great deal more of anger than panic in her expression at that point. Had she not been interrupted, Phil had no doubt that she could have quoted chapter and verse of every rule that forbade this exact set of circumstances.

_Agent Coulson has signed off on our decision._

Shock, disbelief, doubt- but she said nothing, her gaze merely flicking quickly in the direction of the camera.

_You have been replaced_.

* * *

He was teetering on the verge of moderate dehydration and only staying awake through sheer stubbornness when something seemed to hit the ceiling above the interrogation room. There appeared to be no impact on the plane itself, but both Phil and Raina instinctively looked up.

Nothing at first- just the ceiling, as usual, though his vision grayed at his sudden movement. Then, as his vision began to clear, the ceiling above opened, bringing physics into play. He remembered, suddenly, oddly, how much he used to hate having to jump out of an airplane wearing a parachute.

Of course, being tied to a chair that wasn't secured to the ground was even worse, but something metallic shoved him back down onto the floor before the hatch above snapped shut. It took him a minute to realize that he had just been inadvertently clobbered by Steve's shield, and the part of him that wasn't thinking 'concussion' was thinking it might just have been the coolest thing to ever happen to him.

It was as someone- Clint, as it turned out- pulled the chair back upright that he became aware that his left wrist was probably broken. He met Clint's gaze as best he could, though his vision was spotty. "Ouch," was his very eloquent statement, and Clint snorted in amusement.

"Yeah, my head would hurt, too, if Steve slapped me with that overgrown dinner platter." He sliced through the ropes, allowing Phil's hands to fall free to his sides. "Any internal bleeding?"

Distantly Phil was aware that Raina, now constrained by a set of handcuffs, was watching him quietly. The room was empty, otherwise, but from the shouts elsewhere the others were obviously incapacitating Garrett and his team. He ignored Clint's question in favor of his own, which he considered far more important. "Jemma?"

"Safe."

"Safe."

"Probably pacing the floor, but safe," Clint confirmed, his gaze seeming to be caught on the wreckage of Raina's home theatre. "Should I find a safe place for this laptop, Phil?"

"Yes." Maybe he would ask Skye to remove the evidence of Jemma's torture from the hard drive before they handed it over to SHIELD- but maybe not. Jemma's decision. "Jemma?"

"Safe," Clint said again, pulling him to his feet and slinging Phil's right arm over his shoulder. "Do I need to carry you out of here?"

Just what he needed, to be caught on the security cameras as Clint carried him through the Bus in a cradle hold. "Fuck no."

"I mean, I could ask Steve to carry you."

Marginally less embarrassing, but he would never hear the end of it. Tony would frame screen-shots and hang them in the Avengers' common room. "No."

"How about Natasha?"

"Please just shut up, Clint."

Clint half-carried him anyway as they proceeded out of the room and down the hall into the lounge, where Natasha sat on the couch, her heels kicked up on Garrett's back as if he were a footstool. He was unconscious, which was almost a pity.

"You look like shit," she said, curling her lips into a small smile. "You'll be a good patient for Dr. Jemma, I hope."

"She's going to fuss," he agreed seriously, wondering if he was imagining the slight slur to his words. "Shouldn't you be flying this thing?"

"Auto-pilot. And she's going to fuss just as badly as you would, if the tables were turned." She swung her feet off of Garrett and stood, moving over to them. "Let him sit, Clint. I want to check his pupils." She pulled a miniscule flashlight out of one pocket and subjected him to the glare, paying no attention to his muttered curse.

"You are in so much trouble," she said, almost as if it were a diagnosis. "Jemma is going to handcuff you to the bedframe."

"And not in a sexy way," Clint interjected.

Natasha satisfied herself with rolling her eyes. "Help me carry him to the lab, Clint. He needs fluids and patching up."

"Do not carry me," Phil said, annoyed when the order came out with less than his usual authority.

"Because half-dragging you is so much more efficient." Clint accidentally jarred his injured wrist, and grimaced in response. "Sorry. So, do you want the blue electrolytes or the red?"

* * *

When they delivered her husband to her, it was in the early hours of day three, and Jemma opened the door of her bedroom to find him held up between the Avengers sans Tony.

"Not as bad as it looks," Bruce said quickly, before she could do more than let out a small cry. "A mild concussion, a badly sprained wrist, and dehydration. He's going to be fine."

"Unless he keeps annoying Nat," Clint added. "Then he might not be fine."

Phil reached for her as they helped him inside, and she took his uninjured hand, hindering more than helping their progress to the bed.

"I'll get the sheets dirty," Phil said as she pulled back the covers with her free hand, and she did her best to press back the tears.

"Sod the sheets, you silly man," she said, keeping her grip on his hand as Natasha and Clint helped him sit on the bed. "I've got it from here," she told the others quietly, grateful when they nodded and slipped out of the room.

She released his hand and knelt down awkwardly to pull off his shoes, placing them neatly to the side before efficiently ridding him of the rest of his clothes, examining his visible wounds with a professional (if emotional) eye. They were clean and had been well-tended, and though she knew that a good sob was in her future, she agreed with Bruce's assessment that Phil's injuries were more dramatic than life-threatening.

"Burn those," Phil said as she began to fold the clothes he had been wearing. "Garrett's."

She dropped them immediately, a frown on her face. "I hope they were clean," she said as she poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the table, placing it within arm's reach.

"Probably." He lay down, every movement he made careful and slow. "Better than my old clothes."

Jemma rested one hand lightly on his face, stroking her fingers down the curve of one cheek. "Can I get you anything?"

He patted his left hand awkwardly against the expanse next to him. "Lie down with me. Please."

His fatigue was evident, but he watched her as she circled the bed to claim the spot beside him. "What can I do for you, dear?" she asked again, rephrasing her question, sitting rather than lying down beside him. It was easier to keep an eye on his expression from that position, and he did seem to relax with her so close. On instinct she pulled his right hand toward her and tucked it underneath her shirt, curving his palm and fingers over her stomach. "We missed you."

He closed his eyes at that, brushing the tips of his fingers against her skin in a light caress. "I missed both of you." His eyelids fluttered open. "I just want to sleep with you beside me, Jem."

"Okay." She choked back an audible sob as she moved away to switch off the bedside lamp. "I can do that."

She curled up next to him in the dark, several pillows arranged behind her back, one between her knees. "You'll wake me up if you need anything?" she asked softly.

"Yes." He yawned beside her, and moved his head just enough so that she felt his breath against her hairline. "Where are we?"

"With May's mother."

The sound he made- a mixture of a sigh and a groan- confirmed her suspicions. "Don't worry," she said, carefully draping her arm over his chest, and continued in a serious tone. "I'll protect you."

"She makes wonderful soup," he said, almost nonsensically, and she smiled against the curve of his shoulder.

"Maybe she'll make some for you."

"She slipped me a Mickey Finn, once."

"In the soup?" she asked with a slight frown.

"No." He sighed faintly. "In my coffee."

There was a story there, and probably a good one, at that. Still, he needed to sleep, not to start on a rambling reminisce. She reached up and lightly stroked the side of his face, her fingertips grazing past the butterfly bandage on his brow. "Shhhh. Go to sleep, Phil. I'll be here when you wake up."

"Cap hit me with his shield."

Her lips twitched, and she nearly laughed. "You can tell me all about it in the morning."

"It was amazing."

"I'm sure it was." Jemma was equally sure that Steve was most likely mortified. "You can tell our grandchildren about it, one day."

"But not as amazing as you are."

"Thank you, dear." She slid her fingers down to rest lightly over his mouth, smiling when he kissed them. "Time to sleep, Phil."

"You'll be here?"

"I'll be here." She brushed a kiss against his shoulder. "I'll always be here."


	41. Boswellia serrata

Thank you so much to everyone who comments. I really do appreciate (and cherish) your feedback.

* * *

_The great market: a platform between towers,_  
_eight sided; shrouded in red yellow-silk._  
_The air hung like draperies,_  
_and no scent was there of myrrh or cinnamon-_  
_frankincense held us all by the wrists,_  
_and permitted no alloy._  
-"The Child Bride of the Lost City of Ubar," Catherynne M. Valente

He was confused on waking up- justifiably, he later thought- when the first thing he saw was the blue-tinted ceiling above as opposed to the pocked metal he had recently been very familiar with. It was the soft sound of Jemma's breathing that made him remember that yes, he had been rescued.

It was his headache that made him remember being clocked by a very familiar circular emblem. He took a few seconds to consider how he felt about being concussed by Captain America's shield, and decided that there were many worse things that he could have been smacked by. Certainly there were many things he could have been concussed by that did not have the cultural cachet of Cap's stripes.

Mindful of the repercussions of moving too quickly, he carefully turned his head to watch Jemma's sleeping face. Her beringed left hand lay between them, her right tucked under her cheek. There were shadows under her eyes, likely from sleepless nights that he had inadvertently caused, but otherwise she seemed perfectly fine. Her rosy complexion was a relief after watching so many hours of her pallid, hollow-cheeked self. Even her hair looked fuller and healthier, though that was partially attributable to pregnancy.

A stray beam of light from the curtained windows slanted across the bed, momentarily distracting him when he noticed the rainbow reflecting off of the diamonds in her wedding band, which in turn caused him to realize that his left hand was conspicuously bare.

The fact that it took him more than a second of thought to realize that the band had been moved to his right hand told him more than anything that rest should be his priority for the immediate future. That didn't stop him from considering whether or not he could stand long enough to brush his teeth and take a shower (had Clint given him a sponge bath? He had the sneaking suspicion that Clint had given him a sponge bath).

He did sit up carefully to test his boundaries- and to reach for the glass of water beside him- and as he did so Jemma's eyes opened. She yawned and patted a hand lightly against his hip. "Good morning," she said, her gaze turning from sleepy to assessing in the space of a few seconds. "Is there anything I can get you?"

Phil took a sip of the water, waited, and took another cautious sip. His stomach didn't seem to be on the verge of rebelling, but that would be just his luck. "Morphine."

She cracked a small smile at that and rearranged herself into a sitting position. "I'll find you something," she promised, and brushed her fingertips against his forehead. "How's your vision?"

"The ceiling is the ceiling and the floor is the floor," he answered with a shrug, quickly regretting the shrug. "You look pretty."

She pinked with pleasure. "Do you think you could eat something?"

"Maybe in a bit." He placed the glass back on the table carefully. "Are you okay?" She looked unharmed, but her loose pajamas covered a great deal of skin, and he was still haunted by some of the footage he had seen.

"Perfectly fine." She plucked at her top, a knowing look on her face. "I'll strip if you insist, but you need to remember that you aren't cleared for sex yet."

He laughed quietly. The ghost of captivity Jemma seemed to hover near, but the living, breathing Jemma in front of him could not be confused with that specter. "I'll take your word for it."

She held out her arms in response, drawing him close until his head rested against her breasts. "My poor Phil," she murmured, curling one arm around his shoulders and stroking his head with the other. Raina's words rang in his mind, and he pushed them away in irritation. He liked it when his wife was gentle with him, dammit, and it was very, very nice to rest like this against her soft form. He closed his eyes and wrapped his right arm around her stomach, willing to stay exactly like this for however long she was comfortable.

"How did you end up here?" he asked, shifting his head just enough so that his forehead was pressed against bare flesh. She chuckled quietly in response and unbuttoned the top half of her shirt.

"Still not cleared for sex," she warned, but sounded amused nonetheless. He repositioned himself again, nuzzling his nose against the curve of one breast, trying not to think about how she had earned the scar on the other. "I called Tony," she continued, pulling up the hem of her shirt so that he could touch skin there, as well. "Apparently Mrs. May owes him a favor of some kind."

"Dangerous," he muttered against her cleavage. She was always going on about how good he smelled (which could not be the case now, bless her), and right now she smelled _amazing_. "I wouldn't want her to owe me a favor."

"Surely being owed is better than owing?"

"Only by a small margin." He hoped the beginnings of a beard he sported weren't irritating her skin. "Better to avoid the whole situation entirely."

She gave a non-committal hum in return, her fingers combing gently through his hair. "I haven't seen her since we got here. I assume she's still in residence."

"She wouldn't leave." Not with Jemma here, not with May on her way. "She's been plotting."

"I think she's still mildly perturbed that you never gave her grandchildren." She laughed when his arm tightened slightly around her belly. "Were you aware that she was hoping for little May-Coulsons?"

"I had an inkling," he said miserably. "Luckily Melinda put her foot down early on, though at the time I wasn't sure if I should have been insulted by her complete rejection of me or not."

"Whatever her reasons might have been, I'm very grateful for them now." She brushed a kiss against his nascent bald spot, and then a second. "Your poor skull. I'm surprised Steve only gave you a mild concussion."

"Hard head." He was falling asleep again; hardly surprising, as cozy as he was. The steady beat of her heart under his ear, the warmth and fragrance of her soft skin against his cheek- she was alive and healthy, and happy, he hoped.

_Agent Coulson will come for me._

He flinched, and she noticed. "Something else is bothering you," she said, still stroking his hair. "It's not physical; physical pain wouldn't bother you quite as much." He considered moving away, but she snugged her arms tighter around him, anticipating his response. "What did Raina say to you?"

"Can't breathe," he grumbled, which was an utter lie and all she did in response was laugh at how his whiskers were tickling her breasts. "What did Raina say to _you?_"

"Don't distract me," she said in an affectionate tone, but loosed her arms from around him. "You don't have to tell me now," she continued, quieter, "but I'd like to soothe your mind if at all possible."

He pulled away from her and lay back down, the movement quick enough that it jarred nearly every sore muscle he had and made his head ache all the more. She leaned over him, frowning, her shirt gaping wide. "Was it something about me?" Her forehead creased; her concern obvious. "Was she trying to make you doubt me in some way?"

"Hardly." He rubbed his good hand over his face. They were even now, in a sense, though fortunately she had only seen a small portion of his own surgical history. "She had all of your footage, Jemma. That's what she showed me."

She stared at him, her gaze turning distant after a few seconds. "I'm sorry you had to see that," she said finally, her voice almost hoarse. "That must have been... hard." The word came out after what seemed to be a brief mental struggle, and he wondered what word she had initially been considering. "Was it very bad?" she asked in a whisper, pressing her hands forcefully down against the bed.

He had expected anger, or even bitterness, but not this muted terror. Strangely, it seemed to melt away as he blinked in confusion, leaving Jemma looking positively sheepish. "Shouldn't have reacted like that," she said with a nervous laugh, brushing away a stray tear. "It's not like you weren't there for the immediate aftermath. How vain of me."

Phil sat back up, reaching out with his right hand to cup her face. "It didn't make me think less of you, Jemma. I still think you are as brave as ever- braver, now that I've seen some of what you went through."

"What is it, then?" She was still a bit teary, but she caught his hand between both of hers and began to stroke his palm. "I would expect you to be sad, after seeing me in bad straits- but you look guilty, and I won't have that, Phil."

"I left you there for so long." He couldn't look her in the eyes, instead keeping his gaze on his hand between hers. "I failed you, Jemma."

She froze at his words, and then released his hand entirely. He expected her to leave the bed, perhaps even the room, but instead she closed the distance between them and straddled his lap, pinning him to the mattress.

"I'm not cleared for sex," he reminded her somewhat dazedly, barely noticing that she was sitting on a bruise on his thigh. "What are you doing?"

What she was doing was unbuttoning the rest of her shirt and shrugging it off, allowing it to fall onto his knees. "Now," she said firmly, grasping his face gently between both of her hands. "Look at me, Phil. Don't interrupt."

She waited until she had his attention, and then began to speak quietly and clearly. "I was invited to collaborate on research by a highly respected department within sci-ops, and I accepted. Everything was above board, even you have to admit that- i's dotted and t's crossed on all the paperwork. I know the paperwork was correct because you prepared it. If something had been off there, you would have raised questions, you would have spoken with me, but _everything was correct_. The fact that no one heard from me after a few days was odd, but even Fitz will admit that I can sometimes get _too_ into my work. In the academy and in our first lab, there were whole stretches of days when I would get so absorbed that Fitz had to threaten to throw me into the decon shower to get me to leave."

"But they replaced you," he interrupted wearily, and she shook her finger in warning.

"Which is in accordance with protocol," she replied crisply. "They were still sending you into the field, and you needed a biochemist. They told you he was temporary and that I was wrapping up my research, which was an entirely feasible scenario. And they kept you busy, didn't they? You told me yourself how many cases they gave you during that time. And what were you going to do? Dump everything and try to visit me? Even being Fury's pet project wouldn't have given you that much leeway."

"Woof," he uttered dryly, placing his hands on her thighs.

"And even after they made my transfer permanent, you still couldn't have stormed that damn building, not with the team. They would have split everyone up, or court-martialed the lot of you, _or_, if things had gone very poorly, bullets might have been fired. You tried to handle it the official way, first, and when that didn't work you broke cover. You didn't have to do that."

"Yes, I did."

"No, you didn't," she replied, shaking her head. "You could have trusted the system- you could have badgered Fury into finally telling you what he believed to be the honest truth. Instead, you involved Nat and Clint, and you did your best to shield the rest of the team when you found out how bad things were. You made plans, you found the right time, you gave up _everything_ for me." Her voice cracked, then, another tear sliding down her cheek. "You're not omniscient, Phil. And you didn't fail me."

He had not been expecting so passionate a defense, and was at a loss as to how to respond- or the more logical portion of his mind was, at least. While he was still floundering for the right words his arms wrapped around her back, pulling her closer until he could press his face against the crook of her neck.

"You are so silly, sometimes," she said shakily, her arms tight around him. "But you make me ridiculously happy, so I suppose I have to put up with it."

"I'm very grateful for your patience," he said finally, the words muffled against her neck. "I love you, Jemma."

"I know you do, love." She kissed the side of his head, her breath uneven against his ear. "I know that this conversation won't fix things- I know it will haunt you for a while. I just want you to keep in mind what I've said. Please."

"I can do that." He pulled back, keeping his arms loose around her waist. "May I ask a question?"

"Of course."

"Why did you take off your shirt?"

She looked down, as if surprised to find that she was still topless. "Oh. I just- my breasts always seem to make you so happy," she said with a sudden laugh. "I suppose I thought they would help."

"I think they did," he teased, and reached up with his good hand to run a finger down the pale scar that curved down the side of one breast. His smile turned bittersweet, but he refrained from commenting, moving his hand to cup her breast instead. "How lovely you are," he told her earnestly, meeting her gaze.

Her own smile was sweet, and she let her hands drift down his sides to rest on his hips. "You still aren't cleared for sex," she said with a sigh that was only a little dramatic, rising to her knees and swinging herself off of his lap.

"Dammit, Steve," he muttered, relishing her bright laugh as she walked over to the dresser.

"Last night you said it was amazing," she informed him, and he had a fuzzy memory of saying something to that effect. "I just hope it wasn't the_most_ amazing thing to ever happen to you, because I might get jealous, if so."

"Top ten," he admitted. "But it's low on the list. I can think of a number of memories involving you that take the top spots."

"I can deal with that," she said easily, beginning to dress. "I'm going to find something for your head, and breakfast. Do you need anything else?"

"Clothes," he said immediately, and stroked a hand thoughtfully down his developing beard. "A toothbrush. And a razor, if you can find one."

She nodded, running her fingers through her hair. "Get some more rest." Her tone was pure Dr. Jemma, at that point. "I'll be back soon."

* * *

Jemma knew that she was fussing, but what was good for the goose was good for the gander, as the popular saying went. "Would you like me to get Clint to spot you?" she asked, realizing too late that she had twisted her fingers in her hair like a five-year old. "Let me help you shave, at least."

He held up the razor, a modern, streamlined item complete with safety guard, and shook his head. "I doubt I could slit my throat with this- at least not without dismantling it first. And no, please spare me Clint's critique of my naked body."

"Your body is lovely," she protested with a frown as he turned on the shower. "There's nothing for him to critique."

"Hardly a David," he quipped, walking over to where she was seated on the bathroom counter. "Also, no longer thirty."

"Better equipped than David," she said primly with a significant look. "Give me a kiss."

When they eventually parted she was pleased to see that he seemed as breathless as she, with that spark in his eye that generally meant she was in the best kind of trouble. "Admittedly, I prefer you clean-shaven or with a bit of scruff," she said, stroking her fingers along his chin. "But maybe one day, when we aren't running for our lives, you could grow it out and let me feel the difference."

"Don't you mean see?" he asked with a small smile, and stepped into the shower.

"No," she said honestly. "I really just want to know how it would feel between my thighs."

He made a noise she had never heard from him before, almost as if she had punched him in the gut. "For science, I take it?" he said with a bit of a gasp. "I admire your thoroughness."

"Do you?"

"I do." He jerked the shower curtain across the opening, cutting him off from her vision. "And please, please, don't talk like that again until I can do justice to that kind of thoroughness."

"Very well." That really had been unkind of her- and not just to him. "I never did tell you what Raina wanted from me."

He did not respond immediately, and when he did she could almost hear the slight delay his mind was still working on. "Yes?"

"She wanted to know about Skye."

"Hold that thought," he said after a moment. "Let me get to a point where we can sit and have this discussion."

She moved back into the bedroom to wait, flipping idly through the same book she had been trying to read for the past few days before finally giving up and putting it aside. At one point one of the household staff knocked on the door, clean sheets and towels in her arms, and without a word Jemma helped her strip the bed and remake it with fresh linens. There were spots of dried blood where Phil had slept, but the maid barely blinked, obviously used to stranger sights.

"The others are staying along this hall," she informed Jemma before leaving. "Though I believe most of them are currently downstairs."

Jemma thought, coming to a quick decision. "If you see Skye, would you please ask her to join us in a half hour?"

"Of course." Jemma might as well have asked for the newspaper, if the maid's expression was anything to go by.

Phil emerged a few minutes later, clean-shaven once more and adjusting the compression bandage around his injured wrist. "So she asked about Skye." He sat on the couch, still looking fatigued. "Please, sit with me."

He took her hand once she drew closer and pulled her down next to him, as close as she could be without actually being in his lap. "I sent a message asking her to come in thirty minutes or so," she said, leaning in to brush her nose against his neck. She had missed that particular spot.

"She does need to be part of this conversation. If Raina tells the wrong person..."

"Would Director May be the wrong person?" she asked in a murmur. "Are we just going to have to run again?"

"No," he said slowly, waiting a few seconds before answering. "For one, running from her would be a mistake. For another- I do think she would listen to May, if May told her to leave Skye alone. She might try to _hire_ Skye, but she's too classy to simply toss her in a cage." He placed a gentle finger under her chin, tilting her head up. "It would be rude."

"As long as we're not being rude," she replied with a smirk. "How is your head?'

"Better." Knowing Phil, that could mean anything from _I'm probably not going to die_ to _I have a mild headache_, and so she moved away to the other end of the couch and patted her lap.

"Lie down for a bit. You were on your feet for too long."

The couch was really too small for him to stretch out on, but without a word of protest he placed his head on her lap and let his legs hang over the edge of the other arm. "I'd forgotten how annoying a concussion can be," he said with a sigh, closing his eyes.

"Yet it's still in your top ten?"

"Sadly." He reached up and patted her belly lightly, making the move not at all awkward in that magical way he had. "That baby's still moving?"

"Hmm-hmm. Gently, but there are some definite acrobatics going on in there." She began to stroke his face, running her fingers lightly across his skin. "Soon you'll be able to feel."

"The baby's definitely going to edge my concussion out of the top ten."

They were both quiet after that, and at some point he slipped from simply resting into an actual doze, his features relaxing minutely beneath her hands. She almost regretted asking for Skye to come so soon, especially when the eventual knock on the door snapped him awake instantly.

"It's me," came Skye's voice from beyond the door. "Is it safe to come in?"

Jemma shot Phil a quick look, seeing that he was sitting upright and looking perfectly composed once more. "Yes, come in."

There was a tinge of worry on Skye's face, but she broke into a smile when she saw Jemma. "Glad to see you really are okay." She dropped heavily onto a chair opposite them, bouncing a little on its well-sprung surface. "How's the Chosen One?"

"I hope you're talking about Phil," Jemma said, her tone mimicking, but not quite matching, Phil's professionally bland best. "I am not having a Child of Prophecy."

"Not even a Child of Pretty Good Hunches?" Skye asked, still smiling, and then sighed. "Fine. How's the perfectly normal baby?"

"Moving." Jemma allowed some of her excitement to leak through and saw, out of the corner of her eye, Phil's smile.

"Excellent- though I'm guessing that's not why you wanted to speak with me." She slumped back into her chair slightly, the only outward sign of anxiety the way she was bouncing one knee. "Go on."

"I spoke with Raina briefly," Jemma said slowly, and Skye raised a brow, her lips tightening into a thin line. "She seems to know about your 0-8-4 status- or suspects."

"It was bound to happen eventually," Skye said after a pause, straightening in her seat. She didn't seem at all surprised or offended that Jemma knew that particular secret. "Do you think she might know more?"

"Possibly. Likely," Phil amended. "I think the real question is whether you're ready for everyone else to know more."

"What little there is. Who else knows?" she asked after a moment, her gaze turning inward.

"Just May." Jemma turned to watch Phil as he spoke. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his gaze focused on Skye. "Even if we don't bring up the topic with Raina-"

"She might bring it up with someone else," Skye finished, nodding. "Any chance May told her mother?"

"It's unlikely." Phil smiled slightly. "They both know the value of classified information."

"You don't think she'd be a bit too interested in what makes Skye tick?" she continued, her smirking grin very reminiscent of the more defensive Skye Jemma had once known. "I'm not interested in a premature autopsy, AC."

Phil seemed on the verge of making a serious reply but, bizarrely, suddenly laughed, relaxing in his seat once more. "I hate to say it Skye, but in this one house alone we have Bruce Banner, Captain America, and two zombies-"

"Excuse me," Jemma protested, smiling nonetheless.

"-and that's not even taking into consideration two of the best assassins in the world-"

"Is he trying to say I'm nothing special?" Skye asked Jemma in amused disbelief.

"I'm trying to say that you _fit in_," he said, batting away the pillow she tossed in his direction. "You're part of the weirder world, now. Get used to it."

"Steve did hit him very hard on the head," Jemma offered as Skye began to laugh. "Zombies, Phil?"

"You have a better word?"

"No," she admitted, shaking her head. "Don't tell Clint or Tony."

"Wouldn't dream of it." The comforting weight of his arm settled around her shoulders, one hand stroking her shoulder. "Stark would just start serving calf brains every chance he got."

Jemma shuddered instinctively, remembering the one and only time she had been served that dish. She had been five years old and staying with her maternal grandmother, and had been roundly scolded when she had replied to her grandmother's _it will make you smarter_ with an impertinent_I am smart enough, thank you._

She had been obliged to eat her serving, despite her protests, only to throw it up on the rug five minutes later. The scolding she had received for_that_ still struck her as terribly unjust, even more than twenty years later.

"Okay, a) that is disgusting, and b) we're expected for lunch- a brain-free one, hopefully." Skye stood and thrust her hands into the pockets of her jeans. "Unless you have some very important cuddling to do, or something."

Jemma was not averse to the idea of eating lunch in their room and coaxing Phil into falling asleep again, but she sensed that he was beginning to feel restless. "I am hungry," she admitted, knowing perfectly well that even if he had been half-dead that saying those three words would have him heading to the kitchen. "You?"

Phil, of course, immediately stood and offered her his hand. She quickly assessed him- steady on his feet, clear gaze, his face free of excessive pallor or color- and decided that she could always claim the need for a nap later in the afternoon if he began to look weary. "You're going to protect me?" he asked her quietly as Skye strode on ahead, a teasing smile on his face.

"The only person you're allowed to have babies with is _me_," she replied equally quietly, but firmly, delighted when he laughed. "I'll hit anyone who bothers you about it."

He actually looked uneasy at that. "Director May..."

"Natasha will do it for me," she interrupted, understanding perfectly that, even if she weren't pregnant and were in better shape, May's mother could probably still wipe the floor with her. "No need to worry."

"You think of everything," he said, noticeably relaxing, and let the hand at her waist slide down over her hip in a brief caress. "I, on the other hand, will hide in an air-vent with Clint."

"What _did_ she do to Clint?" Jemma asked, suspicious, and raised a brow when he shook his head.

"Nothing. Yet." He shrugged at her stare. "Ask him."

* * *

Phil did not expect a quiet lunch, and his expectations were met.

"I thought you people left to stay out of trouble," Tony said as he burst into the dining room. "Agent, what kind of operation are you running?"

"The kind where I get punched in the face, apparently," Phil replied calmly as he buttered a roll. "How's Pepper?"

"Kicking ass and taking names, per usual." Tony took the empty seat to the left of May's mother, and to Phil's amazement the woman actually looked... amused. In a friendly way.

Tony was a miracle worker, sometimes.

"Thor volunteered to stick around the tower and make sure his brother didn't try to destroy it again." Tony, in a move that Phil personally thought was incredibly daring, leaned over and kissed Director May on the cheek. "When I left he was assembling Ikea furniture with the interns. Don't ask."

"For target practice, I would assume," Natasha said dryly. "I have a hard time believing that you would actually let Ikea furnish your precious tower."

"Yeah, I'm a snob," Tony admitted with a shrug. "Sue me. So," he said, beginning to load his plate, "you managed to cut off one of Hydra's heads. Where are the others?"

It was an excellent question, one that Phil had been pondering himself. He had no doubt that Garrett, as the Clairvoyant, played an important role in Hydra, but he would not be the only one. Even doing away with Loki would not completely destroy the monster that faced them- they would likely be dealing with insurgents for years, if not decades, to come.

It wasn't a something he liked to consider, now that he had a small family to protect and a desire to leave SHIELD behind, but it was a possibility he couldn't afford to ignore.

"Have they been interrogated yet?" Steve asked quietly, studiously directing his gaze toward everyone _but_ Phil.

"No," Director May replied coolly, pushing her plate slightly away from her. "But I would like the chance."

She looked around the table as silence fell. "It would not be the first time my organization has collaborated with SHIELD," she reminded them, and a sudden mischievous glint appeared in her eyes. "And do you really think any of you would be trusted with this task? I am fond of Phil, but not enough to make his captors bite a curb. All of you are much too emotionally invested. Though," she added, "I have no doubt that Dr. Simmons would come up with some very creative and painful ideas to extract information, given the chance."

Natasha met Phil's gaze and held it for a long moment, before doing the same with Jemma and, surprisingly, Skye. She held Skye's gaze longer than any of the others, and finally looked down the table toward the director. "We accept your offer," she said, "provided we can observe."

"Of course." Mrs. May sat back in seeming satisfaction. "Everything will be according to protocol."

She failed to specify _which_ protocol, which Phil could only assume was intentional. That Garrett and Raina would still be alive at the end was a certainty, but that left her a great deal of leeway.

It was agreed that everyone would regroup at three in the afternoon for the initial round of questioning- Jemma had yawned conspicuously when Clint had suggested beginning immediately, a feint that fooled no one but was still effective- and Steve caught up with them in the hall.

"Phil, please accept my apologies," he said, his face pale, and Phil could hardly believe that this was happening. "I'm supposed to have better control than that, but I was trying to keep you from flying out of the hatch, and-"

Phil interrupted him, not sure that he could listen to the rest of his apology without embarrassing himself horribly by thanking Steve for the honor of being clocked by his shield. "Not a problem, really," he said as casually as he could manage, which, after a lifetime of training, was very casual indeed. He purposefully averted his gaze from Jemma, knowing that the odds of her giving him some kind of fond _my foolish husband_ smile were fairly high.

Steve just stared at him for a moment, as if uncertain that he had heard him correctly- and then abruptly turned his attention to Jemma, apparently deciding she was a more receptive audience. "Jemma, I am so sorry," he began again, and the apology that followed was so well-crafted that a small part of Phil briefly considered clapping once it was through.

Jemma looked unfazed by Steve's eloquence, but then, she was British. "I would have been angry if he had been badly injured," she admitted. "Or developed amnesia- I might have smacked you if he had developed amnesia, because I just could not take that right now- but a mild concussion is a small price to pay for not losing him to the open sky." She might have been unfazed, but her smile was closer to a grimace, and it was the first moment when Phil saw the toll the long days of waiting had taken on her. "You did your best, Steve. Please don't worry about it."

She did manage to ease her expression into something closer to her usual good humor, and Steve seemed to understand that her lingering tension had little to do with him and everything to do with her overall stress level, because he visibly relaxed. "You'll let me know if there is anything I can do?"

"Of course," she said as the clock struck one. "And now I need a nap. We'll see you in a few hours." A clear, if polite, dismissal.

Jemma was quiet as she undressed, looking as if she were fighting off tears as she settled into bed in only underwear and a camisole. "I'm fine," she said with a weak smile when she saw that he was watching her, waving a hand. "Everything's just catching up with me."

"I know." He stretched out an arm in invitation, and she moved across the foot or so that had separated them on the bed with no hesitation. "My shoulder's fine," he assured her when she hovered just on the verge of lying down, obviously concerned about further injuring his already injured arm. With a slight nod she curled up beside him, resting her head on his shoulder and wrapping an arm around his chest. "Sometimes it's worse for those left behind to worry and wait," he said quietly, considering the numerous times that he had sent agents into the field only to lose communications halfway through a mission, leaving him to agonizing silence and a feeling of helplessness- and he had only been tied to those people professionally, and not burdened with an overabundance of pregnancy hormones.

"Nobody hurt me," she replied softly.

"I beg to differ." She had mentioned at least one call, which was bad enough, but Phil would guess that she had spoken with his captors several times over the past few days. She was as much a target of his torture as he was; she had simply been placed at a remove. "Ready for a nap?" he asked, sensing that she was not in the mood to continue their current conversation. "I am," he said soothingly, turning his body toward her so that he could bury his nose in her hair. It wasn't the most comfortable of positions, in his current state, but worth it for the proximity. "I set an alarm."

"That's good." Her voice bordered on tremulous, and the sleeve of his shirt was beginning to feel damp. "I'm just going to have a bit of a cry, first."

"Whatever you need." He murmured the words against her hair, rubbing her back with his good hand. She almost always cried quietly, almost silently, in the kind of way that made him wonder if she had been conditioned to do so since childhood. It was not the kind of speculation that made him feel kindly toward his unknown in-laws.

She had cried that way on the footage until she had ceased to cry at all, but he couldn't consider that, couldn't think of it with her actual tears spilling against his arm (because it would haunt him, like she had said; there was no easy fix for this). There was nothing he could do but to comfort her as best he could.

He didn't attempt to talk her through it, or to shush her, or to make any kind of sound at all, really. The feel of his arms around her seemed to help Jemma the most, and so that was what he offered.

_Nobody hurt me_, indeed. Raina might have been interested in Skye, but Phil would bet money that every one of Garrett's blows had been aimed squarely at breaking Jemma's will.

* * *

_AN: With thanks to SinEater, who rightfully pointed out that Director May was the best candidate for interrogating Raina and Garrett._


	42. Lycium ferocissimum

_Utnapishtim said to him, to Gilgamesh:_  
_Gilgamesh, you came here;_  
_you strained, you toiled._  
_What can I give you as you return to your land?_  
_Let me uncover for you, Gilgamesh, a secret thing._  
_A secret of the gods let me tell you._  
_There is a plant. Its roots go deep, like the boxthorn;_  
_Its spike will prick your hand like a bramble._  
_If you get your hands on that plant,_  
_you'll have everlasting life._  
-_The Epic of Gilgamesh_ (Gardner-Maier)

"This is a waste of popcorn," Clint declared glumly, allowing Natasha to wrest the bowl from his hands. "They're just _staring_ at each other."

"It's masterful," Nat said with a grin before tossing a handful of popcorn into her mouth.

"I'm inclined to agree with Nat," Jemma murmured to Phil, shifting for the hundredth time on what might have been one of the most uncomfortable chairs in the world. It was identical to the ones on the other side of the two-way glass, and Jemma silently marveled at the way Mrs. May sat ramrod straight on her own chair- and had been sitting in just such a way for the past two hours.

In utter silence.

It was not a tactic that would have worked with Garrett- or maybe it would; he would probably start talking and continue to talk until he ran out of air- but with Raina on the other side of the table it was downright eerie. They were both calm, both elegantly composed, both wearing a look that somehow promised that if they chose, they would eviscerate the other person without spilling a single drop of blood on the very lovely tile.

"I wonder how she gets blood out of the grout," Nat mused. She had her boots propped up against the glass, and she was fending off Steve's attempts to steal her popcorn. "Does she just re-tile every season?" she asked May, whose only response was a very quiet sigh.

"It's working," Phil agreed, his posture no longer as straight as it had been. He slumped ever-so-slightly in his chair, his arm draped around her shoulders. He could do with another nap, in her professional opinion, but she understood why no one, including herself, wanted to leave the room. It felt as if _something_ would happen at any second, though what that was she was unsure. "But too slowly. A few more days like this and Raina might talk, but only out of respect for Director May."

"Where is Garrett?" Jemma was careful to keep any hint of nervousness out of her voice, and was fairly satisfied with the result of her efforts. She felt an itch between her shoulder blades, as if someone were staring intently at her from behind- but no one was, of course. The only person who was actually behind her was Fitz, and he was clearly asleep.

May smirked at that- an actual, visible, smirk. "In the basement."

Judging by May's expression alone, Jemma decided that she had no desire to ever see Mrs. May's basement.

"She can do this for hours," May volunteered suddenly. "Phil's right; she's playing a long game."

A long game on _the most uncomfortable chairs in the world_. Jemma wasn't sure if she wanted to scream, cry, or just whimper pathetically.

The bowl of popcorn appeared suddenly in front of her, and she glanced over to see Natasha watching her carefully. "Rule one of interrogations," Nat said solemnly, shaking the bowl slightly, "you can always watch the recording later."

"The scary one makes a valid point," Tony said, who had given up on actually paying attention roughly one hour and forty-five minutes before and had sequestered himself in the back of the room with Skye. They were both hunched over laptops, typing furiously, and as far as Jemma could tell they were engaged in some kind of hacking war. Judging by Tony's previous obscenities, Skye was winning. "Anyone want shawarma? I could go for some."

"We are in Poland," Clint said, rolling his eyes, and snatched a handful of popcorn out of the bowl. "We are not in fucking New York City."

"There's probably a Polish equivalent. Okay, seriously? _Seriously_. What was that?" Tony lifted his hands off of the keyboard, a flabbergasted look on his face.

"A trojan," Skye replied, and nudged his leg with the tip of her boot. "It's infesting your email," she continued in a sing-song fashion, a grin on her face.

"But what is it going to _do_?"

"Every time you type Pepper's name it will replace it with Snookums." Skye stretched, looking very satisfied with herself. "Every. Single. Time."

"Are you trying to destroy my reputation?" Tony tapped a few keys, and then sat back in shock. "It really does say Snookums."

"You're welcome." Skye shut the lid on her laptop triumphantly. "Is Mother May still trying to stare down Raina?"

"They barely blink." Bruce jotted down another line in his notebook. "It's almost rep-"

He broke off with a quick glance toward May. "Feline," he said instead. "Very feline."

A caterwauling suddenly bombarded them, resolving into a very determined bass voice. Strangely, the noise did not seem to have any effect on the director and Raina, but Jemma knew for a fact that she was not the only person to jump in surprise in the antechamber. There had been a quite audible thump and yelp behind her as Fitz had fallen off of his chair, startled awake.

"May," Phil began, his calm voice belying the look of intense irritation on his face, "would that be our least favorite Hydra agent singing 'Do Virgins Taste Better' in the basement?"

"Yes," May answered curtly, offering absolutely no explanations or hint as to why they were currently being serenaded from below.

Both Skye and Bruce had their hands clapped over their ears, and Steve's expression was him at his most patient. "Why?" he asked, rubbing a hand wearily across his eyes.

"Ma turned on the intercom." May gave them a small smile. "Unfortunately, we'll all just have to suffer through it for a while, Raina included."

A very evil kind of torture indeed. "I can't sit through this," Jemma said with a sigh, feeling her skin crawl at the thought of listening to any more of the vocal stylings of John Garrett. "Let me know if she ever starts to talk."

Everyone except for Natasha, Clint, and May followed her out into the hall, apparently happy to leave as well, only to stop short when the noise did not cease.

"She just does not give a fuck," Tony said in amazement as Garrett's voice continued to spill through hidden speakers. "I admire that."

* * *

Five days.

_Five days_.

Phil had to admit that he himself would have cracked after four.

He suspected that the ploy with the speakers was, in some small part, the director's attempt to chase away any observers while she continued her silent interrogation, and by and large it worked. There was always someone stationed in the antechamber of the interrogation room, but those not on watch- and those who were never on watch, for obvious reasons- found quieter places on the property to wait out the days, never straying too far from the house. A semblance of their normal routine returned: daily training resumed for everyone, though Phil's was temporarily modified due to his various injuries. Clint began teaching Skye how to use a crossbow ("Because it's cool," Skye said with a shrug), and after a brief conference between Phil, Jemma, Bruce, and Strike Team Delta it was unanimously decided that Jemma would no longer handle a gun except in the case of an emergency. It had nothing at all to do with Jemma's proficiency- her aim really was very good, by that point- and everything to do with concerns over the decibel levels and the possibility of overexposure to lead.

Instead, Clint produced a box full of throwing knives and a blown-up copy of Garrett's official ID photo. It was intended to be solely for Jemma's own personal target practice, but it quickly became clear that _everyone_ wanted a chance to play with that particular target, and it wasn't very long before Skye, Fitz, Clint, and Natasha were knocking back shots and involved in a competitive game of modified darts.

Unsurprisingly, the photo was torn to unrecognizable shreds in short order.

Steve had been the one on watch when Raina began to speak, but the sudden silence alerted all of them to the change in circumstances, drawing them out of the solarium off the library with little regard to the scattered notes, books, and the half-finished models that had absorbed them just moments before.

Raina and Director May sat decorously behind the glass, sharing a pot of tea and chatting quietly.

"-but he's an obsessed man," Raina was saying as they entered the room. "I had hoped for more from the Clairvoyant, but instead I found a man whose sole desire, after power, was to extend his own life." Her shrug was delicate. "There is nothing wrong with concern for one's own life," she acknowledged, "but someone who looks past the mysteries of the universe to focus on the prosaic- to be frank, I am surprised that he was able to cultivate that aura of mystery for as long as he did."

"He has been quite lucky," the director agreed, and took a sip of her tea. "Men generally are."

"An excellent point." Raina set her cup carefully on the table. "I assume Agent Coulson and his team are on the other side of the glass."

"By now, I would assume so."

"Then they should know that there are others in Hydra who would be very pleased to study Skye- or Mary Sue Poots, as I believe she is legally known."

Tony turned to stare at Skye, who shrugged defensively. "The nuns chose it, okay?"

"Garrett would have been pleased to study her as well, though once Grant Ward was taken into custody he lost some interest in her." Raina brushed a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. "She was a handy tool for keeping Agent Ward in line, but as far as Garrett was concerned she couldn't do anything to help _him_- unlike the Coulsons."

"GH325," Director May said immediately, and Phil was not at all surprised that she had knowledge of the drug. For all he knew, it had been developed with the aid of her organization. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time that Fury had collaborated with her.

"Exactly. His enhancements are failing. He is desperate for a miracle." She refilled her tea cup with careful, precise movements. "And what greater miracle is there than a drug that has brought two people back to life? His efforts to learn the truth from Agent Coulson were futile- the man simply does not have the scientific training to understand the why and the how, and his own memories were and are too fragmented to give anyone a clear picture of his resurrection."

"Dr. Simmons, on the other hand, is an accomplished biochemist who has studied the drug herself," Director May said with a nod.

Jemma glanced up at him with a frown. "Fury?"

"Likely," he replied with a sigh, slipping his arm around her shoulders. "They're friends, of a sort."

"Exactly," replied Raina. "I'm sure she doesn't have a thorough understanding, given how brief her study was, but certain regression techniques could be used to help her remember what she has forgotten."

"Not all of those techniques would be safe for a pregnant woman." A simple fact, and related as such. "The theta brain-wave machines that Hydra favors are not the most gentle of technology."

Not gentle at all, if Phil's own experience had been standard. No matter what Raina had said at the time, the experience was definitely nothing like surfing.

"Which was why I advocated for safer alternatives." Raina looked contemplative, her fingers tracing the edges of her tea cup. "Garrett agreed, despite his impatience. He saw the value of allowing the child to come to term. He couldn't afford to allow Agent Coulson to live, despite what he might have told them, but the baby would have been an excellent incentive for Dr. Simmons to turn her talents in a different direction. Hydra does not exactly have a maternity plan," she said with a small, crooked smile, "but for a brilliant, cooperative biochemist exceptions could be made."

Jemma's body grew rigid under his arm, and as he looked to her she turned slightly, pressing her face against his shoulder. He wasn't at all surprised that Garrett had already figuratively signed and sealed his death warrant. If Phil were attempting to become an evil overlord and recruiting a reluctant scientist was on his to-do list, killing the protective husband and father-to-be would be his top priority. Phil counted himself as lucky that he had been more useful as a lure during their previous encounter.

Raina had a great deal more to say- where nests of spies were hidden; the bare bones of several contingency plans that would have to be carefully dismantled before Hydra set them into motion; several planned stunts on the same level as the destruction of the cathedral in Krakow. Other than her brief mention at the beginning of their conversation she made no more mention of Skye, or of anything alien at all.

She also had nothing to say on the subject of Loki, which Phil found very worrisome. When asked, she had merely stated that she had never met the man, and repeated questioning could not make her budge from that stance. He was not entirely sure he believed her- she really was very difficult to read, at times- but for their sake he hoped that what she had to say was the truth. Loki in cahoots with Garrett and Hydra was bad enough; Loki plotting with Raina might be more than they could handle. There was a depth and a complexity to Raina that Garrett couldn't match, but that would work very well with Loki's own mind.

Director May had arranged for the footage to be immediately forwarded to Fury, and Phil spent several hours fielding phone calls from the man himself and nearly every remaining high ranking agent. Hand's call had been the shortest: a concise, curt conversation that ended with a litany of crisply enunciated obscenities regarding the current circumstances and a sudden, but seemingly heartfelt, congratulations on his impending fatherhood.

Felix, on the other hand, had kept him on the phone for an hour as he crunched numbers, calculated odds, and complained bitterly about Jasper Sitwell's tendency to finish a pot of coffee without starting a fresh one afterward.

When Phil finally arrived for dinner, the others were halfway through the meal and Tony was starting an argument.

"I am _not_ issuing a W2 to someone named _Mary Sue Poots_," Tony insisted, ducking when Skye tried to hit him with a dinner roll.

"Do you even know what floor your accountants work on?" she asked. "And last I checked, I work for Pepper."

"Jarvis knows," he said with a shrug. "Why would I need to know?"

"There are a lot of things you don't need to know," Bruce agreed with a solemn nod, causing Tony to give him a look of wounded offense.

Jemma smiled and kissed his cheek when he sat down beside her. He noted but did not comment on the fact that she was eating slowly, almost methodically, a sure sign that she was worried. She did not contribute to the conversation over dinner, but then, neither did he. It was easier to listen the others bicker playfully about inconsequential things, at least for the time being.

She was quiet throughout the rest of the evening, and he waited until they were alone in their room before making any mention of it- or would have made mention of it, if she hadn't pulled him into her arms as soon as the door had closed.

"I'm clearing you for sex," she said bluntly, and then kissed him lightly on the lips. "Just so you know."

"Not too vigorous?" he asked teasingly. "You aren't afraid that a good orgasm might scramble my brain?"

"I think it's unlikely." She smirked, beginning to walk in such a way that she was guiding him slowly but surely toward the bed. "But just in case, I'll do most of the work."

"So I'm supposed to just lay back and let you have your way with me?"

"Yes," she said, her smirk turning to a cheerful smile. "Let me help you undress."

She was humming as she unbuttoned his shirt, her fingers nimble and quick as she stripped him of each piece of clothing. If was fortunate that her dress had only a zipper to contend with, because with only one good hand his speed was not up to par.

Jemma's face bore an almost cat-with-a-canary smugness once she had him naked and supine on the sheets. "How's your head, dear?" she asked, her hips just shy of where he wanted them and the tips of her hair brushing against his chest. "No headache? No blurred vision?"

"Not a twinge," he answered honestly, stroking the skin of her inner thighs with his hands- albeit a bit clumsily with his left.

She let him continue his ministrations for a few moments more, her smile soft, only to bat his hands gently away when they drifted to the apex of her thighs. "No need to rush," she said, running her hands down his chest slowly. "I've missed this, too."

* * *

"Are you sure I didn't do irreversible damage?" Jemma asked him, her lips curling into a smile as she snuggled against his side. "What year is it?"

"No clue. Don't care."

He certainly didn't appear to care. She couldn't quite remember the last time she had seen him so relaxed, and suspected that it had been back in Lima. "Where is Steve's room?"

"Two doors down, on the right," he said immediately, his eyes still closed.

"Well, as long you remember the truly important information," she teased, running her fingers across his chest. "Do you remember my name?"

His eyes did open at that, and he rolled onto his side to face her. "I remember all of your names, wife." He wrapped his arms around her, nuzzling his nose against her hair. "Do you want them in chronological order?"

"I would be satisfied with the most current," she replied, one hand settling protectively over the scar on his back.

"Jemma Elizabeth Coulson." He nuzzled her hair again, his arms loose and heavy around her. "My favorite of your names, coincidentally."

"Mine, as well."

She expected him to fall asleep- he seemed more than halfway there already- but for once she underestimated him. "What's worrying you?" he asked, shifting slightly so that her head rested on his shoulder. He was still relaxed, but he sounded more present than he had just moments before. "You were very quiet at dinner."

The smile slipped from her face at his words, and she instinctively pressed herself closer to him, tucking her head under his chin. "I've spent so long telling myself that I would fight against them to my last breath," she said quietly. "But today, listening to Raina... I realized that if the worst came to pass, and they had the baby, I would do whatever they asked of me."

It had been one thing to act recklessly at the beginning of her pregnancy, when the concept was still so new and strange that it was scarcely real, even to her. If she hadn't run the blood panel, she probably wouldn't have even guessed that she was pregnant for at least another few weeks, writing off the symptoms as perfectly natural reactions to stress.

Now, the baby was too real to be ignored. She felt the changes in her body with every move she made, saw them every time she glanced in the mirror. Every movement within her was a forceful reminder of why her priorities were shifting suddenly and dramatically, but that didn't stop her from worrying that she was somehow betraying everything they were fighting for.

"I know," he said, startling her away from her thoughts. "And I'm glad."

She frowned, unsure she had heard him correctly. "Glad?"

"Worst case scenario," he said, his voice calm yet intent. "If they back you into a corner and you have no one to turn to, do what seems best. I'm not going to haunt you from the afterlife if you decide to protect the baby by any means necessary." His fingers slid through her hair, stopping to cradle the back of her skull. "If that happens, please protect yourself, too," he added quietly. "Make the best deal you can."

It was not an outcome she wished to dwell on, but it invaded her mind nonetheless, seeking purchase no matter how hard she tried to push it away. Phil dead, their friends gone, and herself with a baby at her breast, accepting a lab coat stitched with Hydra's or Cybertek's emblem in the hope of keeping that child with her. Would it be braver to tip a painless poison down her child's throat before swallowing it herself? Were there any good choices to be made when you were on the losing side of a long war?

Euripides, Jemma recalled, had written lines for just such an occasion. The chorus of Trojan women, lamenting on the shore as they were parceled out to their new masters, doomed to never return to the ruins of Troy. Their children sold as slaves, or, in the case of Astyanax, ripped from his mother's arms and tossed from the highest tower for fear that he would avenge the murder of his father at some later date.

There was her resolve, at least: she would not play the part of doomed Andromache, who lost her husband to the spear and her son to the brutal rocks. No one would take Jemma's child from her, not without spilling blood of their own first.

"But let's concentrate on the best case scenario instead," he murmured, drawing her back from her unhappy thoughts. "Let's think about how nice it will be to finally go back home to Lima and sleep in our own bed. Let's think about your complication-free delivery and our healthy, beautiful baby. You'll get your garden back into shape, and I'll be able to cook everyday again, and Clint and Nat will practice hand-to-hand on the roof-"

She laughed at that, a bit shakily.

"-and one day we're going to fly to Stockholm, and I'm going to smile and drink champagne while you accept the Nobel you deserve."

"You're so sure I'm going to win a Nobel?" she asked, still chuckling. "I might win an Ig Nobel instead. I might even prefer it."

"Either way, I'm going to be there. And afterward, I'm going to take my brilliant wife to bed for a much more private celebration. Maybe we'll even make a baby in Stockholm. A Nobel baby."

His certainty that she would win a Nobel was very, very sweet. "That would be an excellent story to embarrass said child with," she replied, and brushed her lips against his neck. "And a much nicer award than a clunky gold medal that will only gather dust."

"Let's keep the possibility in mind, then." His arms tightened around her. "We're going to have the time, Jemma. Time for lazy afternoons, and for slow dancing in the kitchen when the nightmares won't let us sleep, for family movie nights where Clint will teach our kids how to hit a moving target by making it into a game with popcorn- and he will, Jemma, you know he will."

"Nat's going to teach them how to cheat at cards, isn't she?" she asked, grinning at the idea.

"How to count cards, more like. And probably how to pick pockets, for good measure." He moved so that he could meet her eyes. "We're going to have a very good life," he said softly. "That's my best case scenario."

"I like that scenario very much." She kissed the tip of his nose, enjoying, as ever, the faint blush that accompanied the action. He didn't blush at a kiss to the mouth or forehead, or even at a kiss to far more intimate areas, but for some reason his nose was the tipping point. "Let's add 'no more abductions' to the list, shall we?"

"Please, let's." He reached down to stroke the side of her belly. "That goes for you, too."

"You're very good at pulling me back from the edge of panic." She ruffled his hair, which was already as disheveled as it could be, and pressed a kiss against the corner of his mouth. "One of your level eight seminars, I take it?"

"I actually did attend a seminar on crisis management," he admitted. "Though they advised _against_ cuddling as a means of calming someone down."

"Worried about sexual harassment suits, no doubt." She began kissing her way along his jawline, enjoying the quiet calm while it lasted. "How lucky for me that you choose to be unorthodox."

"Only with you," he assured her, stroking her hair back into some semblance of neatness. "I break a lot of rules with you."

"I've noticed." She paused in her trail to pay some dedicated attention to his earlobe, smiling when he gasped at a nip. "Thank you, husband."

"Too tired to even try for a round two, Jem," he said plaintively. Taking pity on him, she stopped kissing his neck and pulled a little away, stroking a hand over his cheek.

"Let's clean up, then," she said, noting the way his eyelids were beginning to droop. "And then we can spoon."

"That does sound nice," he said with a sigh, dragging himself out of bed. "I can barely feel my legs, Jemma. What did you do to me?"

"Nothing you didn't beg me to do," she replied pertly. "I seem to recall you saying 'please, Jemma', a number of times."

"True enough," he admitted, reaching for his toothbrush. "I'm going to get my revenge, you know."

She knew without checking the mirror that she was grinning like a fool, and that her hair, despite his efforts to smooth it, had likely reached Hermione-esque levels of wildness. "I'm looking forward to it."

* * *

They had had a perfectly lovely morning, what with a good deal of sleepy cuddling and a shared bath that left more than a little bit of water on the bathroom floor, and then Garrett had to ruin it all.

Not that such a thing was out of the ordinary, Jemma thought grumpily. The man seemed intent on destroying her peace.

The first problem was that he refused to speak with Director May, or at least regarding anything of substance. The latest cinematic releases, his fondness for novels about the old west, even the weather were all acceptable topics, but he refused to say a single word about Loki, Hydra, or anything vaguely connected to the two. He weathered her silence, first, and when she abruptly changed tactics he cheerfully allowed one of her agents to inject him with a cocktail of drugs that did little more than make him sloppily affectionate (or as affectionate as he could be, bound as he was to a chair).

Jemma did not observe for the entire day- she couldn't face his chatter and sly innuendoes, and when Natasha pulled her along to the gym to throw knives at targets and do some gentle stretching she followed along very willingly- but she did return every other hour or so for an update. It was on one such visit that she stepped into the antechamber just as Garrett turned to the glass, and with unerring timing said, "I want to talk to Mrs. Coulson."

Jemma paused on the threshold, the door heavy against her hand as she continued to hold it open. "Say the word, Jemma," Natasha said quietly from behind her, even as Phil moved quickly toward the door, looking as if he were fighting the urge to push her back out into the hall. He didn't, in the end- he knew too well that she wouldn't appreciate the gesture- though he did hesitate uncertainly in front of her, looking back toward the glass as Director May replied.

"And why would you wish to talk to her?"

"She's pretty," he said with a shrug. "I like pretty women. Phil's a lucky man; the prim ones are always the most fun in bed."

She caught a glimpse of Phil's expression as she moved past him into the room: lips pressed into a thin line, the slight flare of his nostrils, worry lines cutting deep across his forehead.

"Though, she was prettier before Dorian took a knife to her." Garrett seemed very relaxed, considering his circumstances. "_The Princess Bride_ had it right- there is a shortage of perfect breasts in the world. It was a crime to ruin hers."

Oddly, she found herself offended and not at all embarrassed. "One scar," she muttered. "It's not like he gave me a mastectomy, and even then-"

"As scars go, I thought that one was really quite tasteful," Natasha said calmly. "The one I gave you was much worse."

"You weren't working under the best of circumstances," Jemma replied in an equally calm tone, ignoring Skye's muffled hysterical giggle. She turned to glance at Phil, who was watching her carefully. "You have no complaints, I trust."

"My only complaint lies in how you received those scars in the first place," he said, his tense expression easing somewhat. "Your breasts are perfect."

Not a conversation she had expected to have in front of most of the Avengers and her teammates, but far better than just standing around and listening. "Thank you, Phil."

"I'm disinclined to send her in to speak with you if you're just going to be crass," the director informed him. "Would you be willing to tell her real information?"

"Get Mrs. Coulson in here, and I'll tell her what I know about Loki." He grinned, a disconcertingly charming expression on his face. "Only her, mind. No one else."

For a moment it looked as if Director May would dismiss the idea out of hand, but then she stood. "I'll discuss it with her," she said coolly. "You do realize that if you should fail to give her valid information, you will be the next one under the knife."

"I'm trained to resist torture," he replied, still absolutely confident in himself. "You think that little threat makes a difference to me?"

"Do you know what I did to the last man who tried my patience?" she asked him, tilting her head slightly to the side.

"What, you killed him? Took a few fingers?"

She smiled slightly. "I castrated him."

It was brief, but Jemma could swear that she saw it: a flicker of panic darting across his face, akin to a nervous twitch.

May, meanwhile, sighed and rolled her eyes. "Mother, you've never castrated anyone," she said once the director was in the antechamber and the door securely closed.

"Oh, I know," her mother replied, still smiling. "But men always get so nervous about that little appendage of theirs."

Those members of their party in possession of said appendage all looked away from her, as if suddenly distracted by a very interesting dust mote.

"Are you willing to speak with him?" she asked Jemma. "I would guess that the odds are about fifty/fifty that he will give you anything of real import. He might try to call my bluff- a mistake on his part, because then I would be forced to go through with my threat." The director shrugged. "No great loss, I'm sure."

Jemma glanced at Phil to gauge his reaction to the idea, and was not surprised to see that he was frowning again. "He is bound," she said, half to him and half to herself. "He would have to be Houdini to free himself before everyone could get inside the room."

"That's true." Natasha was nodding as she eyed his restraints speculatively through the glass. "The danger isn't that he'll be able to harm you physically. The worst he could do is instill some kind of doubt in you, most likely about one of us."

"He would have a hard time convincing me that one of you is a traitor," Jemma replied. "The idea is preposterous." She made up her mind in an instant. "I'll speak with him."

Strangely, Phil did not argue with her, or even attempt to dissuade her from the idea. "Be careful," was all he said, taking her hand in his and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Please."

One of Director May's agents preceded her into the room, making a careful inspection of Garrett's bindings before waving her through the door. It was a simple, seemingly peaceful little room, with its neutrally shaded walls and cool tile. Jemma did not sit- if she did need to move quickly, her chances were better if she was already on her feet- but stood within easy reach of the door, her hands clasped in front of her.

"You wished to speak with me?"

He did not reply immediately, and she wondered if the director's threat really had unnerved him. "Loki's a master of disguise, you know," he said finally, meeting her gaze.

"I'm aware." She wasn't comfortable making eye contact with him, but she certainly did not intend to look away first. "Are you claiming to be him?"

"Maybe," he said, his grin returning. "Maybe not."

"Director May has a surgeon on staff, I believe," she said when it became obvious that nothing else was forthcoming. "I'm sure he'll ensure that you suffer minimum blood loss during the procedure." She turned slightly, reaching for the door, and paused when he spoke again.

"Do you really know those people?"

She raised a brow, a silent encouragement to continue.

"Would you really know if one of them had been replaced by the king of tricksters?" He appeared utterly serious for once. "Could you swear to know every quirk, every speech pattern?"

She found herself considering the idea seriously, despite her earlier words. Was Steve's slip with the shield an actual accident? Was Tony's exuberant personality just a tad too exuberant? Could-

"Are you sure you're sharing your bed with the right man?" he asked quietly, breaking her concentration, and she blinked at him in silence for a moment, dumbfounded.

And then burst out laughing. "Really?" she gasped out. "You really think I'm so unobservant? That Loki could manage to imitate the way Phil breathes, or coughs, or mumbles in his sleep, and I wouldn't notice? I could pick that man out of a crowd, blindfolded." She turned to the mirror. "Let me out; this is ridiculous."

"Honestly," she said in indignation once in the antechamber. "It's as if he thinks we never talk."

"I think that's exactly what he thinks," Natasha said dryly, the implications clear. "His understanding of marriage seems to be fairly medieval. So," she said, turning to the director. "I suppose you have to do it, now."

"It does appear that way." She sighed, looking disappointed. "It's going to make quite a mess."

"If I might interrupt," Phil said, his tone dry, "I'm fairly certain that castrating an uncooperative prisoner is against protocol."

"Which protocol?" Natasha asked.

"All of them," he replied.

"As much as I would love to run away and never talk about this again, I think you need to back up that statement with facts," Clint said. "Much like the 'it's five o'clock somewhere' rule, there is probably also a protocol that agrees with them."

"Steve?" Phil turned to him, a pleading look on his face. "Be the voice of reason, please."

"I have to agree with Phil," Steve said, an uneasy look on his face. "I can't in good conscience allow you to do... that."

"'Allow'?" the director quoted, a look of polite interest on her face. "How interesting."

"Excuse me."

They all turned to stare at the glass. Garrett looked more bored than anything, but Jemma thought she spied a tinge of nervousness on his face. "He never would tell me where he disappeared to between meetings," he said in seeming diffidence. "But he did say that the flowers were lovely."

Natasha's brittle laugh broke the spell of silence that fell upon them at his words. "Bastard," she said, shaking her head in disbelief. "He's in Lima."


End file.
